


I Will Show You Fear in a Handful of Dust

by GenericDemon



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Acephobia, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Daemon Feels, Daemon Prejudice, Daemon Separation, Daemon Touching, Daemons, F/F, F/M, Gen, Grey-Aromantic, Harm to Daemons, His Dark Materials Inspired, Homophobia, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Mistaken for being in a sexual relationship, Multi, Non Consensual Daemon Touching, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Platonic Relationships, Rusakov particles, Same-Sex Daemons, Slow Build, Slow Burn, basically follows the entire show, daemonology, different mechanics than hdm, grey aro relationship, loving without being in love, multiple POVs, non-binary daemon, people and relationships not tagged, tags to be added later, waking up in a different universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2020-05-19 21:59:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19364761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenericDemon/pseuds/GenericDemon
Summary: Rick wakes up from his coma but he's not alone, and he's pretty confident he's not even in the same universe.This world is just like his, a parrelel thing with the same governments, same countries, same technology, same confilcts and evils, and he's sure it's got the same apocalypse too.But the people, they all have dæmons- and he's sort of ended up with one, too._____________________A retelling of The Walking Dead series with dæmons and how that changes certain character interactions and events along the way.





	1. You're Not Alone

“That vase- that's somethin’ special.” Rick licks his lips and swallows, trying to work around the lump in his throat, “'Fess up; you steal it from your Grandma Jean's house?” He watches as a hazy image of Shane sets said vase somewhere beside him, the flowers are a messy blur of colors that fade into momentary darkness as he laughs, shutting his eyes against the pain in his side.

“I hope you left her that spoon collection.” He chuckles again and his eyes snap open when the laughter turns to violent coughing. He gasps for air, breathing harshly and each inhale scrapes a razor down his throat that makes him reach blindly for any liquid to soothe the burn.

“Shane?” He looks around frantically, wondering where he could've gone. He was just there, hovering at his side, dropping off those flowers and talking to him. Looking to his side he sees the vase but, there is no sign of life except for the dying flora.

The IV tugs at him as he reaches shakily towards the bushel of limp, brittle flowers, their stems bent low and heads hung where they brushed the table. He catches one of the buds between his thumb and forefinger, feeling it crunch like paper beneath his skin as it crumbles away like the charred remains of a fire.

He turns his head, spotting the clock up on the wall. It's stopped, an ominous length of time passes but the second hand stays resolutely still. His heartbeat ticks up as he blinks rapidly, trying to come to terms with what he's seeing and what should be there. His ears ring and sing with his pulse. But, it's quiet. It's a truly silent scene in a way it could never be in a hospital.

“Shane!” He calls, voice shaky and hoarse, it comes out more like a barking cough than a name but, he hopes that it's still understandable.

With a grunt he tries to turn over, thinking if he can get up, he can check the bathroom and if that yields nothing he can flag down a nurse. It doesn't really register in his mind that too much time has passed.

He pulls and tugs the wires off his body, pulling the nasal cannula over his head and ripping a series of monitors off his body. He tries to swing his legs over the bed but, pain rips through his side and he slams a hand against the bandage there as if to stem the sensation. He achieves little more than a sharp, white streak of pain beneath his palm and he opts to lift his hand away and bring it to the IV pole, throwing so much of his weight against it that the whole contraption goes clattering to the ground.

He falls with it, slumping to the floor with a heavy thud that echoes the clatter and skitter of medical equipment. It's so loud, someone has to hear it. He tugs the IV out of his hand where it pulls beneath the skin, throwing the needle aside with a huff as he rolls onto his side, curling in as his side lances with pain.

“Nurse!” He tries to call, a hoarse, anxious thing and he thinks with a sickening sense of despair that he's alone, even with daylight streaming through the window and the lights humming overhead, there's no one here to answer his cries for help.

Desperate he crawls to his feet, nearly throwing himself through the bathroom door. His feet slap loudly against the tile and his harsh breathing shatters the silence that ensues. A fine layer of dust coats every surface, dulling the porcelain and clouding the metal. There are no fingerprints, or any indication that anyone has been here in quite some time.

He doesn't dwell on the thought long before his eyes snap greedily to the faucet and he lunges for it, hands fumbling to turn on the tap. It creaks and groans and for a brief moment he thinks no water will come out but, with an unceremoniously spatter his efforts bear fruit.

He drinks and ignores the bitter tang of stale water as it soothes his throat, quenching his thirst. It's the best damn thing he's ever drank.

“Rick?” A voice sounds behind him, he jolts, body tensing as his head snaps up to look in the mirror. He sees no one, just his haggard reflection, all dark circles and days of unshaved beard dusting his cheeks and chin but his face is the only one reflected.

Rick turns, bracing himself against the sink as the world spins with the sudden movement. Still, when the world settles, he sees no one. He squints his eyes and tilts his head, a habitual gesture that shows his confusion plain as day.

Just as he brings a shaky hand to rub at the back of his neck the voice sounds again, this time quieter, gentler and a bit closer. He thinks it sounds familiar, like how his own voice sounds to his ears and perhaps it is just an auditory hallucination. He looks at his feet, giving a short exhale and the start of a muttered curse only for it to trail off into nothing at the sight that greets him.

It's some kind of ferret, or at least he thinks it is but, it's not quite lining up with what he knows about them from what he's seen at pet stores. It's bigger, longer with coarse grizzled brown fur that appears to be dappled with grey and a too small face with a long tail as it gazes up at him, a patient, intelligence in its orange eyes. It reminds him of some of the ferocious little animals he used to see on those nature documentaries he'd watch with Carl.

He crouches, trying his best not to collapse under his own weight as he does so, side protesting as his atrophied muscles work double time to keep him upright.

Even when he blinks, the animal doesn't disappear only blinking back in return and shifting on its paws. The more he looks the more it feels less and less like some creature come to scavenge in the hospital but, it feels like a person. It feels like himself, just as he knows his own stride and his reach, he knows this little mammal with the same familiarity but, he can't quite pinpoint it. It's like coming back to a town he knew as a child, changed in such a way that didn't align with his memory but, still very much the same place.

“Somethin’ wrong, Rick?” The mongoose- and Rick knows that's what he is now as if his brain just dumped the information straight into his existing schemas- sits back on his haunches, extending a paw to rest it on Rick's knee.

Rick stumbles backwards at the contact, it's warm and real and that means he's losing his mind, “Did you jus’-” He cuts himself off, looking around, searching for any indication that this is some kind of elaborate prank. There's just cold, unfeeling tile.

The mongoose comes closer and Rick shuffles away, “Hey, stay back-” kicking at him and throwing a hand out as his back hits the wall and his head catches the bottom of the sink.

The mongoose presses closer, climbing up onto his lap and pressing his face right up next to Rick's, squinting his animal eyes in such a way that's too human to deny.

“You're… different.” The mongoose levels him with an accusing stare, little pink nose nearly pressing against Rick's and making him go cross-eyed. “Damnit.” The little mammal shakes his head, leaping off of his lap, “I knew somethin’ was off-”

Rick watches, dumbstruck as the mongoose paces back and forth, muttering up a storm in an agitated, zigzagging pattern at his feet that causes his tail to brush over his toes with each turn. It's comforting, despite the absolute other worldly nature of it, and he listens for a moment, not quite understanding but catching a few words, something about dust and amnesia and severing.

“What are you?” He doesn't know why he asks such a question and he certainly doesn't know why he reaches out to soothe the creature, as if the growing knot of worry and despair in his stomach will wane with physical contact.

His ghosts his fingers along the mongoose's spine and they both freeze at the contact, tensing up as if they'd just received an electric current through the heart only for it to dissipate just as fast when he presses his whole palm into the warm fur. The warmth spreads through his arm, pooling in his chest like a gulp of hot coffee and bringing enlightenment to his brain in a shimmer of bright, golden memories that are not his own. Some are clear but, others remain fuzzy in a way that leaves them all but indecipherable.

The ones he can see clearly are quick flashes, a name, a voice, a dæmon that didn't exist before he was shot or perhaps they did but, he was never aware of them.

It's like coming home, breathing in the familiar scent of Lori's shampoo as he holds her close or hearing Carl's laughter fill the air after telling some cheesy joke. And now, it's the familiar weight of a dæmon on his shoulder, tail curling around his neck, little claws digging through his shirt and against his skin. It's a constant presence, a bond that can't be broken, his soul walking beside him, not in one body but two.

But, it's not right, not entirely. It's like cramming two puzzle pieces together that are just close enough to work but not quiet the right fit.

“I…” Rick pauses, looking down at where his arms have gathered up his dæmon and press him into his chest, as if hoping he can force his soul back into one body, “I don't understand... I know you but, I don't remember…”

Rick pauses, arms relaxing as one of thousands of questions rolling in his mind comes to the forefront, pushed forward as he recalls the word with the same ease and belonging as his own name, “Wōden? That's your name ain't it?”

“Been my name since the day you were born.” Wōden puffs up his chest, standing taller with his forepaws on Rick's arm. The dæmon tilts his chin up, eyeing him with almost an exasperated look as if he shouldn't have to explain any of this.

Rick tilts his head, that curious little incline that is mirrored by Wōden. He wonders if everyone has one, he wonders what Carl's dæmon looks like, what Lori's does or Shane's. His curiosity gets the better of him and the question tumbles from his mouth, “So…. Everyone has one?”

“Eh, not everyone.” Wōden shrugs, a little human toss of his shoulders that reminds Rick of a cartoon, “‘S a bit odd to see a fellow without one, like seein’ em naked but, it happens.”

There's a distant clatter and both man and dæmon turn towards the source. Fear ricochets through them both in an odd game of ping pong that leaves him feeling less unsettled and more reassured in the knowledge that he doesn't have to share it alone.

“We'll have time to chat later, I know you’ve got a lotta questions but, we need to get outta here. It’s… it ain't right.” Wōden pushes on his side, the uninjured one, little claws pricking his skin through the thin hospital gown but, never hurting. He doesn't move, instead he stares at his dæmon who seems to grow more frantic with each heartbeat Rick remains seated.

A thought dawns on Rick like the cresting of light over a hill at sunrise, brilliant and golden, full of hope.

“You know where everyone is though, right? Shane and Lori? Carl?” Rick's voice breaks, scrambling to his feet in a hurried moment of trepidation and anticipation, both dancing in his chest in a violent tango. Wōden skitters around him, dancing about his feet and brushing against his ankles in a way that softens the tense line of Rick's shoulders.

He doesn't really notice it, it's not like a cat rubbing itself against his legs until he caves and gives it a much demanded chin scritch. This is like second nature, like the gentle breeze blowing on his cheeks until it fades from the mind or the automatic inhale and exhale of breath, it's supposed to be there.

Even as he walks unsteadily to grip the door frame of the bathroom, Wōden weaves between his steps, slow and sluggish in a way that mirrors him but, never under foot.

Rick pauses, “You know where they are?” He asks again, in a stern voice reserved for interrogations or perps. He knows it's the wrong move the moment he sees Wōden flinch back at the tone, separating himself from Rick's side with such hesitation that it feels like he's stretching his soul thin.

“No.” Wōden looks up at him, orange eyes darkening and ears drooping as if the question has reminded the dæmon of the fact that Rick isn't quite the same. “I know 'bout as much as you do. That's how it works, when you sleep, I sleep, when you hurt, I hurt.”

Wōden ducks his head gesturing to his flank, there's no visible wound but he's favoring the opposite side, limping just the same as Rick does, step for step. His tone is just shy of patronizing, “What you think and feel? I know those too, in a manner of speakin'.”

“Right…” He tries not to sound disappointed but, his voice settles on something monotone that isn't what he intended. He can feel a pang of sadness flare in his chest and he glances down at Woden, the little dæmon pressing himself into his bare ankle but his orange eyes are downcast, muzzle pointing away.

“Sorry.” Rick apologizes, hoping to soothe the discomfort nestled near his heart, “I’m… I don't think… You're not supposed to be here.”

“Well, either way-” Wōden laughs, a dark little thing that crinkles his muzzle and flashes his white canines. “We're stuck with each other now.”

The feeling dissipates slightly, becoming distant as if a barrier is hastily constructed to muffle any stray thoughts and emotions. He rubs a palm over his forehead, thumb and forefinger pushing into his temples as he sighs, weariness and hunger are setting in fast and he doesn't know why he feels obligated to apologize to something that's probably a hallucination conjured up by his fatigue.

_C'mon, let's go find a nurse._

It's Wōden's voice but, quieter, more subdued and lacking the drawl Rick had become accustomed to. It's just there, in his head plain as day reminding him distantly of how someone's voice sounds over the phone but, with much more clarity. He decides not to comment on it, leaving it for a later time when butterflies aren't dancing in his chest and his understanding of the world isn't being upended every second.

Giving a small nod in acknowledgement, he swings open the door with baited breath.

There's a gurney in their path, blocking the entrance and Wōden takes Rick's puzzled silence as a cue to climb up the thing and peer around the hall. The light flickers and hums, plunging the world into a wild dance of strobes before leveling out into a dim glow.

“Looks clear.” Wōden scrunches his nose and a shudder passes through his frame as he swipes a paw across his face, “Ugh, smells like death.”

“Comes with the territory.” Rick whispers, a sense of foreboding keeps him from disrupting the silence with anything louder. He cringes when the gurney squeaks and creaks, loud as a thunderclap in the quiet as he shifts it out of the way, one hand braced against his aching side.

Wōden chuffs, shaking his head as he makes himself at home on Rick's shoulder, crouching low like a living scarf and tail lashing down his shoulder blades. Rick makes his way carefully over glass from shattered light panels, overturned medical equipment and disturbing trails of dried blood.

Eyes trace a few stray bullet holes in the walls with a keen awareness as a small snuffle sounds next to his ear.

Wōden shifts, pressing his flank into Rick's cheek. “What happened here?”

“Dunno.” Paper litters the halls now, patient information and files tossed carelessly, some are even smeared with bloody handprints. He tries not to slip on the loose sheets and continues to stalk through the flickering hallway.

Wōden runs ahead of him when the nurse's desk comes into view, the further away his dæmon scampers the more a tugging sensation drags at him. It doesn't hurt like the bullet wound in his side but, it hurts like a splinter being pushed into his palm, slow and aching, not overtly painful but, annoying and some latent part of his mind thinks it should feel worse than it does.

The mongoose's tail disappears around the corner of the desk only for his head to pop up over the edge like a shadow in the dark. It soothes a worry he didn't even know he had to see Wōden's little silhouette.

 _There's a phone_. Wōden hops back onto his shoulders as Rick reaches over the counter and rips the phone off its receiver. There's no dial tone and he sags in disappointment, taking the phone away from his ear. He just stares at it, as if waiting for some miracle to happen.

The cold, hard plastic remains unyielding in his palm and he sets it down with a gentleness not typically afforded to inanimate objects.

“Any luck?” Wōden whispers in his ear, whiskers tickling his skin.

Rick shakes his head and he can feel Wōden's worry like a vibration in the air, it mirrors his own and quakes with each stuttered heartbeat.

It's dark, too dark for him to see properly and the flickering light behind him isn't doing wonders to help. He fumbles in the dark, reaching behind the counter for anything to provide a light source. His hands upturn a little plastic bin and he hears the contents rattle, slapping his hand blindly on the items for a moment he feels a little square of cardboard.

Triumphant he grabs it and lights a match with weak, trembling fingers. He waves it around along the length of the desk but, the small halo of orange light reveals nothing useful.

He snuffs it out with a quick flick and the world plunges back into relative darkness. An electrical humming rings loud in the silence and he turns to see a double door to his right, fluorescent lights casting a brief flickering glow before sputtering out, only to repeat the pattern.

He moves towards it with cautious, shuffling steps, Wōden jumping down beside him with a quiet thud and a hollow clack of claws. He looks down at the mongoose and his dæmon meets his eyes, dark and frightened in the dim.

When he looks through the door, it takes him a moment to process what he's seeing. It can't be real and it makes his heart sink and his stomach jump and his throat close. He starts shaking, palm resting against the glass and watching as the scene before him disappears and reappears with each flicker.

“What is it?” Wōden hisses, voice shaking in a way that reflects Rick's fear.

Rick doesn't answer him, he can't look away from the body lying on the floor. It's a woman's carcass stripped nearly to the bone, as if something had eaten her and left her to rot once it'd had its fill.

Rick feels a weight land on his shoulder and Wōden braces his paws against Rick's collarbone as he leans forward to see for himself.

“Wōden, don't-” Rick tries to turn away, to keep the mongoose from seeing but, it's too late. A keening cry grows like a crescendo in his ear, a mournful, terrified thing that punches Rick clean through the gut and he pulls Wōden down from his shoulder to gather him in his arms and press him close to his chest.

“It's okay. I got you, you're okay.” Rick mutters, keeping a tight hold on his dæmon as he starts down the opposite hall. His shaky breathing fills the air alongside Wōden's quieting cries and bullet casings clatter noisily as his feet push and slide them out of the way.

There's so many, that they turn the floor from white to brass and he nearly trips on them, footing rolling out from under him more than once but, he just clings to Wōden harder and steadies himself with one arm to the wall. It's a nightmare, that's it, he thinks, that's all and he'll wake up in a world with no dæmons and no half eaten people and no deserted hospitals.

There's so much more blood here, and the bullet holes form a wavy line in the walls as the dilapidated ceiling hangs around him like vines in a forest. He moves through it, eyes locked onto the grey double doors that simply state 'Don't open, dead inside’ in black, bold letters.

For a heartbeat nothing moves until glass shatters making Wōden jump in his arms and Rick takes a frightened step back as something pushes against the barrier. The door opens just a crack, enough for raspy breathing and moaning to be heard.

A lock, chain, and wooden plank through the handles holds the door shut as the voices from inside turn to a shrill shrieking and an incessant pounding starts up.

Wōden shifts in his grasp, pulling himself up onto his shoulders and hunkering down, belly pressed flat and head nearly tucked under Rick's chin as they both watch in disbelief as fingers press there way through the gap.

The fingers are yellowed and grey, moving and writhing as if they're alive but, lacking any sense of humanity just the same. Those desperate raspy inhales continue and Rick's breath hitches into a frenzy pant. Wōden's claws dig sharply into his skin as Rick throws himself to the side, through a set of double doors.

His dæmon whimpers in his ear and presses closer as if he can mold himself into Rick's neck. There are no words of reassurance that he can give Wōden, no placations or false words of confidence. He's truly and utterly terrified, just as Wōden is and they both quake and tremble as Rick presses the button for the elevator with little hope of actually calling one.

A few steps forward and the fire exit gleams like a red plastic beacon of hope and he stumbles through it, shutting the door behind him and collapsing against it once total darkness consumes them.

He lights a match and the smell hits them both as the flame dies out. They gag, Wōden seeming to have a bit more trouble composing himself with the horrific stench but, eventually Rick manages to light another match and steps cautiously towards the flight of stairs leading down.

The match doesn't last long enough, burning too close to his finger tips and making him drop it with a small shout.

 _I'll lead the way_. Wōden's thought is barely a whisper in his mind. He doesn't know how anything could possibly see in pitch darkness but, Wōden clambers down from his perch nonetheless.

For a terrifying moment, he thinks that his dæmon has simply disappeared into the black or maybe he never existed in the first place and his hallucination has finally come to an end. It scares him, a deep visceral fear that is compounded by a loneliness like nothing he's felt before.

It lasts only but a second before a wet nose and coarse fur brush his ankle and a voice urges him forward through the darkness. Wōden keeps Rick from cracking his skull open with gentle nudges to his feet and soft warnings when he is about to step onto thin air.

It's slow going but, they make it to even ground and Rick stops, unsure of where to go and unable to even see his hand in front of his face. He reaches for the matches, fear making his breath quicken and shake the more time stretches on with no hint of Wōden nearby.

“There's a door here.” Wōden whispers, voice close by as claws scraping metal cuts the air just ahead of him. He follows the sound until his forearm bumps into a metal bar and he grips it like a lifeline, throwing his weight against it until the door creaks and squeals and finally it opens.

It's bright and the drone of cicadas reaches his ears like a beautiful symphony, it's so much better than the quiet and the dark. Only that feeling of relief doesn't last, not when he feels Woden brush by and hears him clamber softly down a set of steel steps.

“Rick!” It's the loudest he's heard the mongoose get and it makes him nearly jump down the steps, atrophied muscles and wounds be damned, he still can't see a damn thing besides blinding white but, Wōden sounds scared. It has his heart pumping and his stomach twisting as his eyes finally adjust to look upon a blurry world of horrors.

There's just bodies, all lined up in neat little rows while some sit stacked in a sick game of Tetris in the back of several pickup trucks. Most of them are covered in white sheets, lashed tightly with rope with a single bullet hole to the head that bleeds red in a sickly halo across the cotton.

It's not real, he thinks. It's not real.

“Oh god!” Wōden cries, near hysterical as he paces in tight circles and waves his head from side to side, looking for any sign of life among the rows and rows of covered bodies.

“Somethin’ fuckin’ ate her and these people-” The mongoose stops, spine arching and hair rising as he bares his teeth and flattens his ears. “They're all...”

Wōden cuts off himself off with a keening whine, bowing his head between his paws as if he could hide from the world. Rick scoops him up, bending low with a grunt of pain as his side protests the action. They have to keep moving, even if it's just a nightmare. They can't stay here, he has to get home.

As he walks in disbelief among the corpses, he notices none of them have dæmons, not wrapped up beside them or otherwise. He supposes they just disappear when a person dies or maybe he's just snapped and he's only seeing Wōden as some way for his brain to cope with reality.

“Oh, god. Oh fuck.” Wōden rasps, snout buried in the crook of Rick's elbow. His long tail hangs limp and dead, brushing against Rick's bare stomach with each careful step he takes on the gravel road.

He wants to feel as desperately defeated and horrified as Wōden does but he can't bring himself to do so, it's all too surreal and even when that overwhelming sense of doom hammers at him like nails in a coffin he doesn't stop.

One foot in front of the other, he passes military vehicles and tents, perhaps a potential change of clothes and food somewhere in the mix, and he leaves it all behind him.

Eventually, the grass turns to asphalt, and asphalt to sidewalk and every house he passes remains dark and silent, cars missing from their driveways, no signs of civilization. Wōden has gone quiet, his breathing evened out into a pattern that makes Rick thinks he's fallen asleep but, when he glances down he sees his eyes are open, half lidded and glazed over as he looks upon the world, orange irises so dull they border on brown.

The red metal of a bike glints in the grass and he picks it up, knowing it will get him home much faster. It takes some coaxing but, he manages to get Wōden to sit along the back of his neck, little tremors wracking his frame. Or maybe those are just his own, as he straddles the bike pressing a palm to his side where it pulls sharply with the motion.

A growling startles him but, a half dead torso crawling towards him makes him fall off the bike, one hand going up to keep Wōden from meeting the same fate. “Woah, shit.”

He scrambles backwards, panting and heaving as he drags the bike away from the horrific sight by the handle. It keeps coming, digging it's gnarled fingers into the dirt, ripping at the grass, anything to drag itself closer to him. He doesn't stick around to find out what it wants.

Wōden clings on for the ride, if he saw anything he makes no comment, quietly flexing his paws against the thin skin of his collarbone and staring ahead. He can tell the mongoose wants to say something, it buzzes in his mind and worries at that strange connection they share.

The ride is wobbly and slow going but, they make it, Rick throwing the bike to the side the moment his house comes into view. He crawls up the steps, through the door standing open like a wooden omen to what lies beyond.

"Lori! Carl!"

He searches the whole house, noticing little clues that indicate people left in a hurry, clothes thrown haphazardly over furniture, belongings strewn about as if the owner didn't have space to pack them, and food on the counters left behind in a hasty scramble to gather what little supplies they could.

He sets Wōden down on the dining room table, leaving the dæmon behind as he makes one more desperate search before collapsing in the living room.

Sobs wrack his frame as he curls in on himself, his forehead nearly touching the floor as desperate keening whines leave him.

He splays a hand out against the wood flooring, feeling it's coolness seep into his fingertips. "Is this real?"

Leaning back on his haunches he looks at his hands with a sort of reverence, as if they hold all the answers. Maybe it's a dream, he thinks, clinging to the idea like it's a lifeline as he smacks a hand across his face, trying to wake himself up with the pain.

When the throb in his cheek doesn't jolt him awake, he hits himself again and again, this time curling his fists and knocking his knuckles against his temples, one hand going to the wound on his side and pushing in until fire sparks beneath his ribs.

"Rick, stop."

He can feel small paws grab at his forearms, trying to stop him as gentle canines nip at his skin, dragging his palms away from their task of self inflicted pain.

"You're hurting us." Wōden sounds desperate now, an undertone of pain making his voice hitch.

Rick pushes him away, none too gently sending the mongoose cascading to the hardwood. "You're not real!"

He dismisses the feeling like shattered glass choking his lungs and filling his chest, a sharp pain stutters along the shaky connection between him and his dæmon. It makes hot tears spring to his eyes and his cries start anew.

"You're not real. _None_ of this is fuckin' real." He whispers raspily, burying his head in his arms.

Anger that's not his own crackles in his stomach like the low simmer of a dying fire and he digs his nails into his forearms, trying to ignore it.

"You think I want _you_ here?" Wōden's voice is nasty and cold, coming out in a hiss. "You think I wanted this to happen? You think I'm not just as fuckin' scared-"

"You're not real." Rick whispers, chanting it like a mantra to himself as if he can will this world and its dæmons away.

"You're-" His dæmon's voice cuts off with a choked cry. "Do you know how this _feels_? Half of me is missing and you're the fuckin' replacement!"

Rick looks up, shocked at the outburst watching though blurry eyes as Wōden stands to his full height, looking as angry and defeated as a mongoose ever could.

"My family's missing- _my_ Rick is missing." Wōden bares his teeth, flashing the full row of sharp little teeth as his muzzle wrinkles and the fur along his spine bristles. "You don't get to decide what's real anymore."

Rick swears the mongoose's eyes flash red but, his words inspire some kind of guilt in him.

"I'm sorry." Rick reaches out, some instinct to physically comfort Wōden but, the mongoose flinches away. "I'm…" Rick let his hand drop and he watches as his dæmon slinks away, a sadness stirring in his heart that leaves him feeling like gravity's increased.

He follows him after a few minutes, sitting on the porch steps with a huff of effort as it pinches the bullet wound. Woden stays silent, resolutely curled into a tight ball with his face hidden safely in his furry side.

For a long stretch of time he just stares down the abandoned streets, wishing that any one of those doors would open up and everything would just return to normal, that a car would come rolling down the street, that he'd hear anything except for cicadas.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Wōden perk his head up, little ears twitching slightly as he raises himself up on his forepaws, his tail going stiff behind him.

A small, nervous chittering starts up and Rick turns his head to follow his dæmon's line of sight. An imaginary klaxon sounds off in his mind screaming danger, danger.

“You see somethin’?” Rick squints his eyes but, all he can see is a hazy silhouette of a person walking down the street. The first person he's seen since he woke up actually and it would bring him some semblance of joy if he hadn't already felt so defeated.

“Yeah, can't you?” Wōden snipes, all nervous and clipped, that undercurrent of annoyance putting poison in his words. Rick turns his head to level his dæmon with an exasperated look, wondering if he's supposed to take it as a joke or not.

Wōden ducks his head. “Sorry, I just-” The mongoose cuts himself off with a jolt, spine arching and fur raising as something gives a muffled groan. He goes nonverbal, only affording that same chatter to leave his mouth.

 _They don't have a dæmon_. Woden's thought is lightning fast, panicky even but, Rick catches it in all its fleeting nature.

“Some people don't have 'em. Said so yourself.” Rick mutters low and dark under his breath.

 _Just trust me!_ The thought is all annoyance and impatience edged with a fear so primal it curdles Rick's stomach.

“We should leave- now.” Wōden slinks away with a final parting hiss out loud, tugging at whatever bond keeps them connected and trying to urge Rick to stand and follow, but the fight has fled him.

An alarmed shout from the mongoose makes Rick whip his head around but, a solid object meets him, clanging against his skull and he blinks up at a hazy silhouette from the ground, arms half raised.

"I got the sumbitch, Daddy!"

It's a kid with a shovel in his hands, a tall scruffy looking crane at his side peers down at Rick, tilting its head and squinting its pale eyes as it clacks its beak.

"Carl?" Rick manages to rasp out, his mind thoroughly scrambled by the hit to the head and the incessant ringing in his ears.

Angry growls and curses from Wōden fill the air as the ferocious little dæmon pounces on the bird and the two tumble out of view with a flurry of feathers and fur.

The kid raises the shovel again as Rick struggles to remain conscious and suddenly a man is waving a pistol in his face, his words distant and echoing through a tunnel until he loses himself to the darkness with a final whisper. "Carl…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rick: Wōden (Indian grey mongoose) 
> 
>    
> Edit: A huge shout-out to HelixaHallwood for helping me make a supplemental document and guide for this fic!   
> The link will lead to a different document based on the chapter (for example this one will only include information for Rick and Wōden) and it also includes picture references for the dæmons and for some characters it will include photo manipulations made by the ever amazing HelixaHallwood!
> 
> https://docs.google.com/document/d/18-t2DaXZbuQ4YXbVuqtgIXQolzCpLvVLqmL8hlveVhM/edit?usp=drivesdk


	2. A Thing of Severance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've omitted certain scenes and dialogue for the sake of brevity; also certain scenes have changed and will change since the walkers in season one aren't technically canon with the rest of the show, so I'll be keeping them as their shambling, slow, unable to climb stairs or fences selves.
> 
> **Rick refers to dæmons in the beginning with it/its but, he learns  
> **Also people in this AU will assume a dæmons pronouns based on the stereotype that almost all of them are the opposite sex of their person (because sexual dimorphism isn't a thing among dæmons since they're technically not animals they're souls)

Rick comes to, blinking awake on a soft bed and for a moment he thinks he's dreamed everything up if not for the dark brown eagle staring down at him, large yellow eyes peering into his very being with all the suspicious energy a bird can muster.

It makes him startle and try to move away from the large raptor but his movement is stopped by crude bungee cords lashing his wrists to the headboard.

He looks around, wondering if there's anything or anyone that can help him but all he sees is that same kid who hit him with a shovel, now weilding a baseball bat. The crane is missing from his side and instead there's an odd looking shrew with a long nose, its fur ruffled as it crouches in the junction of the kid's neck.

He looks back up at the eagle, blinking slowly as if that'll change the picture but the bird only stares, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as a crest of long feathers raises on the back of its head. Its long talons tap a dangerous rhythm on the wood as if in warning.

"Got that bandage changed."

A voice to his right startles him and his attention is drawn to the dark skinned man washing something in a green basin. He meets Rick's eyes from over his shoulder, deep lines of worry set along his eyes and a distrustful gaze to match the eagle's.

"What was the wound?" The man turns back to his task, water sloshing in the silence.

Rick trains his eyes back on the eagle with a sense of unease, he feels like he's forgetting something. "Gunshot."

"Anything else?" The man dries his hands off and turns around, a brow raised as if he expects Rick to continue.

Slightly exasperated he answers with a bite to his words. "Gunshot ain't enough?"

The eagle really doesn't like that answer, opening its beak as it lets out a quiet hiss and flares its wings. The man gives it a disapproving look and the raptor quiets down, shuffling its shoulders and shaking its tail out with a few noisy clacks of its beak.

"Did you get bit?" The man leans in closer, his words carrying an odd gravity to them.

Rick scrunches his brow wondering if this man has lost his mind, "No. Just shot."

The man sits on the bed beside him then, reaching a hand out towards Rick that makes him turn away sharply in fear, eyes crossing as he huffs a panicked breath through his nose.

"Hey-" The man recoils his hand slightly, a gentler tone over taking his voice, "-just let me."

Warily Rick feels the man's fingertips alight on his forehead, the barest brush of skin on skin before the whole back of a palm is pressed there, warm and human against him.

"Feels cool enough, fever would've killed him by now."

Rick realizes the man isn't addressing him then, but rather the kid and he has to assume that's his son by the attentive nod the kid gives, as if he's clinging onto every word and action his father does.

The eagle gives a little squeak, almost reminiscent of a frog and Rick would find it cute if it weren't coming out of something that could very well poke both of his eyes out in a heartbeat.

Morgan gives a huff, shaking his head and seeming to know what the bird meant by its call but otherwise doesn't address it instead he pulls a pocket knife out, opening the blade with a click.

"How long you and your dæ been severed?"

Rick watches the blade hover closer to his eye, like a long sliver meteorite blocking out the sky, "I don't understand-"

The man seems to get frustrated by this and the eagle still perched above Rick reflects this, its feathers puffing up.

"Your _dæmon_. I had to put her to sleep-"

Dæmon. And now he remembers, his soul trying to re-establish its connection with Wōden only for the other half to stay silent and dull, like a phone ringing on the receiver left unanswered. He doesn't think too much about the man's pronoun usage, half listening as he gives an explanation for why he had to knock the mongoose unconscious and the reason for his question.

"-I don't want some lunatic in my house."

"What?" Rick

"I'm talkin 'bout Severance." The man stresses the word in a manner that is all too patronizing, "I need to know if you killed anybody- if you're a killer."

Rick swallows, recalling the few times he'd shot criminals, in fact one of the only times he'd shot to kill was the day he was put into a coma. "Only in self-defense."

The man nods, seeming to mull this over and thankfully the knife is retracted a bit, giving Rick space to breath.

Looking up at the eagle, the man seems to have a silent conversation with it that spans the length of a few heartbeats.

The knife returns to its place just in front of Rick's eye, a flash of silver in the low light and the man leans forward a dangerous glint in his dark eyes. "Take a minute, look how sharp it is."

Rick cranes his neck, pushing his head as far back into the pillow as he can, his arms tense and straining against the bonds.

"I won't hesitate to kill you with it." The man growls it out, a dark and grim warning that hangs in the air and Rick knows without a doubt that he's entirely serious.

The man cuts him loose, the elastic of the cord snapping with a twang as each bond is severed. Rick rubs at his wrists, not yet rising from the bed in case the man interprets that as a threat.

"Your dæmon's at the foot of the bed. That cedarwood'll wear off soon."

As if suddenly aware of Wōden's presence, Rick feels the coarse fur of his dæmon against his ankle. It's the lightest of sensations, like a feather tickling his skin but it's intensely comforting.

"Come on out when you're able." The man hesitates putting a hand on his son's shoulder to usher him out. "Come on."

The eagle gives Rick one last glare before taking to the air, crossing the room with a few broad wing beats that stir up a momentary whirlwind before it lands with a practiced grace on the man's shoulder.

Rick turns onto his side with a slow, careful effort still worrying the light bruises on his wrists. After a moment of sitting and waiting for the man or the eagle to return, he slides from the bed careful not to kick Wōden off. He recoils slightly at the chill of the floor against his bare feet, sending a shiver up his spine.

A chill works its way under his skin, more so due to his lack of clothing than any actual draft in the room. So he tucks the blanket from the bed around himself, the soft material hugging his shoulders as he sits hunched over the edge of the bed.

He gets lost in his thoughts, for how long he isn't sure but he's brought out of his deep pondering by a stirring in his chest and a metaphorical click in his mind as Wōden wakes with a long yawn and that shaky connection between them is re-established.

Rick reaches out to the mongoose, ghosting a hand down his spine as Wōden seems to shake off the lingering effects of the drug. "You alright?"

"Gah, I hate cedarwood." Wōden shakes his head, his tongue poking out between his teeth as he closes his eyes. "Shit always feels like the worst hangover."

A little smile quirks Rick's lips and any worry he had about the mongoose is dissolved when Wōden starts to stretch, wiggling each individual toe and arching his back with a satisfied purr.

Rick rises from the bed, figuring he should make it downstairs sooner rather than later so not to aggravate his arguably amiable host. He stumbles a bit, knees weak and head fuzzy from the prolonged lack of food but, he catches himself on the mattress, Wōden giving him a worried look- all dropped ears and narrowed eyes.

The mongoose doesn't make a comment, only a slight prickling of concern echoes in Rick's mind but it's so distant it's almost impossible to detect.

One foot in front of the other, he finally makes it to the stairs bracing himself to make the perilous journey down on legs shaking worse than a newborn deer.

Wōden pads next to him, a ghost of Rick's limp in his steps as he surveys their surroundings with a critical eye. "Where are we?"

Rick notes that the light fixtures are all dull, the whole stretch of steps illuminated by a wide variety of candles, lamps and lanterns. There's no hum of an AC unit either, and it seems that the whole place is without power, the windows on the second story covered with blankets while the first floor is completely boarded up.

"Some guy with an eagle brought us here." Rick steps down onto the landing, now in what he assumes was once the living room but is now a bedroom, complete with mattresses on the ground.

"An _eagle_." Wōden gives a small huff, shaking his head. "Hope they ain't one of those holier than thou folks."

"They seem alright."

"Yeah, until you get 'em talkin bout crackpot elitist symbolism." Wōden laments as if recalling some past experience. "All of 'em think they're so-"

The mongoose is cut off with a look from Rick as the sound of a ladle scraping reaches them when they come into view the dining room. He hopes that none of them overheard Wōden, the last thing they need is to make the man angry.

Rick pauses in the threshold watching the man and his son gathered around the table, it too illuminated by candle and not the chandelier above it. They look up at him, their dæmons following suit but instead of moving towards them Rick walks over to inspect the living room further.

The furniture is out of place and its quiet dark but he recognizes the layout. It seems to dawn on Wōden as well, the mongoose looking up at him and then turning back to their host, his eyes flashing in the dark.

"This place- Fred and Cindy Drake's?"

The man doesn't answer for a long moment. "Never met 'em. The place was empty when we found it."

 _You think he_ \- Wōden doesn't finish the thought, his own nervous energy cutting it short and making it fade out like static.

Rick shakes his head, just enough to let his dæmon see it but not the man and his eagle, who watch them quite literally like hawks.

Rick doesn't think the man killed the couple, he doesn't give off the vibe of liar, a killer perhaps he very well may be but a liar- no. He has a feeling something bigger is going on, something that would force people to flee, something so devastating even the military didn't stand a chance.

He reaches for the blankets on the window, curiosity getting the better of him.

"Don't do that." The man's voice is tight and clipped, true panic edging into it. His eagle gives a quiet hiss in warning and Wōden seems to take this personally, baring his teeth in response.

Rick narrows his eyes, not moving his hand from the makeshift curtains until the man takes a step towards them.

"They'll see the light." The man raises a hand, open palm thrust towards them and a gentle plea in his words. "There's more of 'em out there than usual."

 _Who?_ Wōden gives Rick a quizzical look that he can't help but mirroring with a slight arch of his eyebrow.

"Should've never fired that gun." The man shakes his head, scolding himself as he walks back to the table picking up an open can from the counter as he passes it. "Stupid-- using a gun."

Rick watches the man sit and his eagle dæmon on the back of his chair seems to comfort him, giving a gentle nuzzle to the man's cheek as he lifts a hand to run it through the eagle's chest feathers.

It's an interaction so tender and intimate that it makes Rick look away, but glancing down at his feet he notices Wōden watching the two a wave of nostalgia that's not Rick's own overtakes him for a moment and he feels a pang of sympathy for the mongoose. He wonders if that's the kind of bond that his dæmon once shared with him and it leaves a hollow pit in Rick's stomach.

The man's words seem to catch up to Rick then, anger washing away the guilt and a sense of unease rises up like a tidal wave. "You shot that man today."

Rick moves closer to the table, bracing a hand on the back of the chair as Wōden takes the opportunity to leap onto his shoulders a low rumble now in his ears as the mongoose starts to growl.

The man looks at Rick, looks at them both really, giving Wōden a little amused smile as if he thinks the whole thing is a joke. The eagle, for its part seems to roll its eyes, or at least gives the best approximation it can.

"Man?"

Rick opens his mouth to assert that yes, in fact this lunatic had shot a man but, the kid beats him to it.

"Weren't no man."

Rick looks at him now, a truly dumbfounded look crossing his face but, the kid is all serious business, brows knit and mouth set, even his little shrew dæmon puffs its chest out, standing a little taller.

The man turns on his son with a disappointed frown. "The hell was that out your mouth just now?"

Looking cowed, the boy turns back to Rick and says, "It wasn't a man."

Rick raises a hand to his temple, trying to understand why the hell these people are just brushing off murder. For his part Wōden seems to keep his frustration in check but, it flows between them, leaking into Rick like a sieve.

"You shot him, in the street out front _\-- a man._ " His words quicken and his voice gives a shake as hysteria rises in him.

The man's face flickers from bemusement to genuine concern, "Friend, you need glasses. It was a walker."

Rick blinks, all his panic and his rage melting into a metaphorical gelatinous pool at his feet giving rise to confusion peppered in fear as his arm trembles where it holds him up.

"Sit down before you fall down."

The man hands him a bowl of creamed corn. "Here."

On any other day he'd think the dish rather unappetizing but the smell and the sight of it is akin to an oasis in a desert, making his mouth water as he anticipates the first bite.

He forces himself to eat slowly, not keen on getting sick all over the table because he scarfed it down at once. He glances up every so often, Wōden sitting by his knuckles and having some sort of staring contest with the eagle dæmon across the table.

"Do you even know what's going on, mister?"

Rick sets his spoon down with a gentle clack, giving the man a critical stare. "I woke up in the hospital today-- I…" Rick trails off brushing his knuckles against Wōden's spine. "I came home and that's all I know."

"You know about the dead people though?"

Rick nods. "Saw 'em outside the hospital, piled up in the trucks."

"No." The man shakes his head. "I'm talkin' bout the walkers- the ones who come back without their dæmons."

This seems to peak Wōden's interest but not in a good way, a shiver of discomfort drifting to Rick as the mongoose addresses the man, "Like a zombi?"

The man looks taken aback for a moment, his eyes widening just a fraction before he shakes off his surprise. "A zombi is still alive. These things, they ain't. They'll tear into you, take some flesh at least-- And once you're bit? Well, the fever burns you out and you come back as one of 'em."

Wōden shifts, the tip of his tail twitching as if the thought agitates him. A bit of skepticism still swirls in Rick's thoughts but he can't deny the things he'd seen, the lady at the hospital and the undead torso near the bike.

"You got a name friend?"

"Rick Grimes."

There's an awkward pause the man looking at Rick as if he's supposed to continue but his dæmon picks up the slack, the mongoose getting to his paws only to lean down in a polite bow. "Wōden, sir."

"Oh, no need for formalities." The man waves his hand in a dismissive gesture before introducing himself, "Morgan Jones and this old girl-" Morgan gives his dæmon's beak a rub, the eagle leaning into the gesture with closed eyes, "is Asherah."

The kid glances at his father before he reaches across the table, offering his open palm for Rick to shake. "Duane and Vesta, sir."

Hesitant, Rick accepts the gesture giving both Duane and his dæmon a small nod and a gentle smile. Vesta seems to duck away at this, scampering behind Duane's neck before poking her little face out around the other side, her nose and whiskers twitching rapidly.

Rick gives them what he hopes is a reassuring smile before silence falls over then once more and is replaced by the gentle clink of dishware.

As they're eating Vesta creeps down from Duane's shoulder, taking cautious steps as she creeps closer to Woden, shifting into a mongoose and sniffing at him.

Rick watches as the shrew's fur seems to ripple and suddenly in a blink she's a mongoose, tilting her head and bouncing on her paws in front of Wōden. For his part, Wōden reacts by mirroring her movements and skirting around her, delicately worming his way through the table's contents and starting up an odd game of tag with the other dæmon.

Delighted, Vesta gives a little chirp and full heartedly gives chase, albeit more clumsily and knocking into a few items along the way, the crowded table being far from the best for playing.

Wōden seems to let her catch up, leaping off the edge of the table and Vesta careens after him. The two scamper around Rick's feet and he watches with an amused smile as his dæmon makes a dash for the living room only for Vesta to give a valiant pounce and tackle the other mongoose, effectively pinning him to the ground.

"Got you!" Vesta cries in triumph as Wōden laughs.

Hearing the pure delight and the laugh of his own dæmon makes Rick's heart feel a thousand times lighter, his very soul igniting with joy.

"Alright, alright-- you win, Bragi." Wōden admits defeat splaying out on his stomach without noticing the confused tilt of Vesta's head as she shifts back into a shrew, circling the downed mongoose to lean her snout in close to his.

"Who's Bragi?"

All the lightheartedness that Rick had felt vanishes in an instant with those soft spoken words, it's like a physical fist is tugging his heart into his stomach and he watches as Wōden scrambles to his paws, maintaining eye contact with the floor as he slinks away.

Vesta moves to follow, one little paw stretched out in front of her only to be stopped in her tracks by Asherah's voice filling the room.

"Let him alone, Vesta."

Rick turns to the eagle, somewhat surprised to hear the silent dæmon speak but he can't say he didn't expect it, her voice sounding pretty much exactly how he imagined it, like a softer version of Morgan's.

Duane leans down, letting Vesta leap into his hands before placing her on his shoulder. The kid looks from Rick to Morgan as if he wants to say something but decides against it.

Rick turns in his chair, feeling the stitches pull on his side but it's nothing compared to the hollow pang in his chest, like a chasm ripped through where his heart should be as Wōden's sorrow seeps into Rick's very soul.

"He gonna be okay?" Morgan levels him with a look of careful concern, hesitance swimming somewhere just beyond that.

Ricks eyes drift to the floorboards, wondering if he should've been running after the mongoose, if he's supposed to know who Bragi is, if he's like a dead end in his dæmon's mind where they once flowed together as a river, now they stand as two separate streams.

"You mentioned somethin' bout being severed?"

We're not severed. We're just… distant. Wōden's thought is muffled but it's still an indignant little thing.

"Sorry, wasn't my place to assume anything." Morgan starts off, standing to gather the dishes as he continues. "Can't be too careful in these crazy days, old prejudice is all we got to keep us safe now."

Ushering Duane out of his chair to gather up any leftover food, Morgan starts to put out the candles in the dining room.  
"Back in the day, severance meant you was a killer; Ted Bundy and the likes, every one of 'em had severed dæs."

Rick stands, still a bit wobbly on his feet as he listens closely to Morgan's words.

"It caught on, people started treatin severed folks real bad, even if their severance was from trauma." Morgan shakes his head, moving into the living room with a lantern in his grasp, Asherah flying ahead of him to alight on a mattress and proceed to drop herself into a comfortable loaf on the blankets, still watching Rick's every movement with a critical eye.

"Like how all those garbage books on settling tell you that a wolf means you're a psychopath, it ain't true but then again who knows anymore." Morgan shrugs, looking about for a moment before spotting Asherah who seems to be rather proud of herself, sitting on a throne of blankets.

Morgan shoos Asherah who snaps playfully at him in retaliation as Morgan grabs up a few of the folded blankets his dæmon was using as a makeshift nest. He throws the blankets to Rick who catches them easily. "The couch should be comfortable enough."

Rick looks at the items in his hands, giving a small thankful nod as he moves to the couch, pretending he understood half of what Morgan' said.

 _You wanted me to settle as a wolf_. Wōden's thought is wistful with a golden hue of nostalgia that quickly sours. His dæmon feels closer now, he can't pinpoint exactly where he is but his thoughts have gone from a muffled whisper to something with a bit more clarity.

Opting to sit on the ground for now, Rick props his back against the couch, tucking the blanket around himself and feeling a sense of unease and loneliness he is unaccustomed to, even with the other occupants in the room sitting just a few yards away.

Rick watches as Asherah cuddles in close to Vesta, tucking the shrew under her wing in a way that mirrors how Morgan and Duane sit.

No one says anything for a good long while. The flickering of orange lights and the soft sounds of a candle wick burning fills the silence, lulling the houses occupants into a sense of calm.

It's broken when a small clack of nails signals the return of Wōden as he trots up to Rick, the mongoose not saying a word as he bumps his forehead into Rick's calf and waiting there as if expecting rejection.

Rick is just glad to see the little dæmon is safe and when he brushes a hand between the mongoose's ears Wōden takes this as an invitation to press closer, wrapping his body around Rick's ankle. Sadness still radiates from Wōden like a dense fog.

"You think it's possible that I forgot I ever had one?" Rick presses his fingers deeper into Wōden's fur, curling them gently as if to physically hold on to the mongoose.

"Amnesia-- That explains your confusion." Morgan watches Rick, his hand reaching towards Asherah in a subconscious gesture to make sure she's still there as solid and real as ever. "Dæmonologists have seen it happen in a few folks but, never as drastic as yours. Before everything went to hell, there were a few cases caused by a lack of oxygen to the brain they said."

"Makes sense." Rick nods but it still doesn't feel like the right explanation, it feels like something more fundamentally life altering happened than just forgetting. It's as if he's moving through this world as an intruder, feeling it in every fiber, every atom and every nerve that this isn't where he belongs. But, he can't just hope he wakes up one day, he owes it to Wōden and he owes it to his family to survive in this new world.

The silence stretches on once more.

"You know I found some books" Duane starts, "They're mostly for kids but you can borrow 'em if you want. Maybe they'll jog your memory." The kid shrugs, looking to his dad who gives him a proud smile and prompts him to grab the offered books from the nearby side table.

"That's very kind of you." Rick leans forward, taking the little stack of books from Duane and surveying the titles for a heartbeat before giving his thanks.

They're all rather cheerful, showing a variety of dæmoms on the covers in different drawing styles, all of them seem to have a golden sparkle about them like dust.

One has a pine marten and some kind of crow looking bird on the cover and the title reads _An Introduction to Dæmonology and Rusakov Particles_. It looks rather more sophisticated than the others, reminding Rick of an encyclopedia and when he flips it open to sift through the pages there's quite a bit more writing than pictures as well as graphs and diagrams.

"Some of those are outdated but they'll catch you up to speed just fine. It'll probably be less stressful on your dæ, too." Morgan adds, giving a nod towards Wōden.

They're interesting, detailing a world and its mechanics that Rick didn't think could ever exist and he quickly gets caught up in reading the introduction by one of the authors, a physicist by the name Dr. Mary Malone.

A car alarm goes off, making Rick nearly jump out of his skin and Wōden leap into the air with a startled squeal.

Morgan gets to his feet, motioning for Rick to sit back down as he makes his way silently to the window to peek through the curtains.

"Some walkers bumped into a car-- same one as yesterday. Nothing we can do about it now."

Vesta shifts into a small spotted cat, giving a hiss as she arches her back and leaps into Duane's arms.

Rick stays seated despite his curiosity to see these walkers burning in his veins, it doesn't outpace his fatigue and the pain in his side though. So he sits keeping Wōden tucked close to his chest in his arms as the alarm rings like a klaxon in the night, both wondering how the hell they're supposed to get any sleep.

It's a very long night.

 

Parting with Morgan and Duane the next day is bittersweet. He's just met them but he feels as if he should do more for them, they saved his life after all and trusted him in a world that seems to have lost all sense of humanity.

Wōden whispers into his ear, "Shouldn't we stay with 'em?"

Rick rummages in the glove box of his police cruiser pulling out a walkie talkie and checking the battery before switching it off. "No, we gotta get to that refugee center."

He stands, closing the door and feels as Wōden pivots on his shoulders to readjust his grip. Wōden still seems to be at odds with Rick's decision, grumbling under his breath as his paws shift anxiously on Rick's collarbone.

"You've got one battery." Rick hands Morgan the walkie talkie. "I'll turn mine on a few minutes every day at dawn. That's how you find us."

Morgan gives him a grateful smile, Asherah ducking her head as if to show her own appreciation, "You think ahead."

"Can't afford not to." Wōden responds amusement dusting his words before they darken. "Not anymore."

Walking away, Morgan pauses turning around with a level of concern furrowing his brows. "Listen, they might not seem like much one at a time, but in a group all riled up? Man, you watch your ass."

"You too." Rick and Wōden say it at the same time, not realizing it until Morgan gives them both a look that one can only describe as proud.

"You're good people." Morgan shakes Rick's hand as he continues, "I hope you find your wife and son."

Wōden bows then and Asherah mirrors him from her place on Morgan's shoulder, a silent conversation passing between the two that lasts for but a heartbeat and suddenly they're parting ways, Rick and his dæmon left standing there with Duane as Morgan watches on from a distance.

It was time to say goodbye to the kid and as Rick crouches down he remembers the books he has tucked safely in the duffel bag alongside the ammo and firearms. Duane is a good kid, honest and selfless, willing to help a total stranger but also protect his dad against any threat despite his fears. It's unfortunate he has to grow up in this world but he's strong, he'll make it and the world will be better for it.

"Be seein' you Duane." Rick shakes his hand, Wōden racing down his arm to give Vesta a last parting goodbye, the other dæmon having shifted into a crane again and the perfect height for the mongoose to press his forehead against the bird's. It's a fatherly gesture, one that wishes good will and safety for them both.

"Take care of your old man." Rick adds as Wōden resumes his place on his shoulder.

Duane cracks a smile and both him and Vesta respond in unison, the crane dæmon even managing a mock salute with her wing. "Yes sir."

A groaning starts up and all parties turn to the fence to see a walker in the same uniform as Rick shamble up to the fence, pressing its fingers through the coils. He looks decayed, like every part of him still rots even though something in his brain keeps him on his feet.

"Leon Bassett?" Wōden breathes, and Rick can feel the mongoose's fur bristle in a sharp tickle at the back of his neck.

"Didn't think much of him…" Rick trails off. "But we can't leave him like this."

"We _can_." Wōden growls in clear disagreement.

"You know they'll hear the shot?" Morgan levels Rick with a raised eyebrow, pulling Duane behind himself as if expecting walkers to come pouring in at any second.

"Let's not be here when the show up." Rick steps towards the fence, unholstering his pistol as Wōden tugs at his shoulder in protest.

"The fuck are you doin'?" Wōden bats a paw against Rick's ear, not trying to break skin but trying to get the man to rethink his decision.

Rick ignores his dæmon, looking down the barrel of his pistol at the walker, watching as it recognizes a meal and pushes at the fence harder, rattling the metal with renewed vigor.

"He's _dead_ Rick." Wōden hisses. "Just-"

He pulls the trigger, watching as the walker sinks to the ground unmoving and the shot rings out, a proverbial dinner bell to anything in the area.

"Jesus." Wōden sighs, looking back at the body as Rick makes a beeline for his car.

"Couldn't leave him like that."

"Yeah, I know." Wōden relents, hopping off Rick and into the passenger seat as the door slams closed and the engine starts. The mongoose sits there looking as if he's always belonged there, sat beside Rick's hat and watching the world go by outside the window with keen eyes that track everything.

Rick looks back in his rearview mirror, watching as Morgan's car disappears from the reflection and he wonders with a dropping sense of confidence if he'll ever see them again.

Further down the road, as the fuel gauge swings steadily closer to empty, he tries the CB radio's emergency channel but much to his disappointment no one answers the broadcast.

He tightens his fingers around the steering wheel, no words exchanged between him and Wōden but he knows they have to be thinking the same thing-- there has to be people out there. There just has to be and if they're not in Atlanta, Rick will search until the ends of the earth to find them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rick Grimes: Wōden (Indian grey mongoose)  
> Morgan Jones: Asherah (long crested eagle)  
> Duane Jones: Vesta (unsettled; elephant shrew, grey crowned crane, tortoiseshell cat) 
> 
> Here's the link to the document for this chapter, it's a living document so it will constantly be updated and added to for each chapter. Again a million thanks to HelixaHallwood! 
> 
> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1H_8cChFsa0nn8pupXS4AOeOLsJtarq_HhAAgEOB77-Y/edit?usp=drivesdk
> 
>  
> 
> Vocab:  
> Severance or Severed- When a dæmon's bond with their person is considered atypical, caused by many things and often used as a prejudice against people. Often a result of trauma, whether physical, mental or emotional. Usually results in being able to be apart from one's dæmon with little or even no consequence/pain/or threat of death. (This doesn't include people who have undergone certain practices or rituals to allow for greater distance between them and their dæ)
> 
> Zombi- term for someone who's undergone intercession, a cruel process used in the past and throughout history to separate a dæmon from their person, typically leaving them with no free will, no fear and no imagination and most importantly no dæmon. 
> 
> Dr. Mary Malone- a reference to the character in His Dark Materials but here she studies Rusakov Particles and her alpine chough dæmon is visible


	3. The Safety of Disbelief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Big apologies to EpitomyofShyness for having Glenn only show up in the very last sentences of this chapter  
> I'm a dramatic piece of garbage who has to drag shit out unnecessarily-- but he'll be showing up with his dæmon in the next chapter trust me!  
> Also thank you for your lengthy, insightful comments- you keep me wanting to write this fic 👍  
> And a huge thank you to everyone else who's left wonderful comments and feedback

Carl watches as Shane storms off after his mom, Cailleach trotting at his heels as they disappear into the sea of tents. He notices the large dog's behavior as she walks away, the dæmon's annoyance broadcasted loud and clear by her rigid tail and the bristling dark fur on her neck.

A part of him agrees with his mom, that they should do more to warn people on the highway but the other part of him doesn't much care, the man on the radio is a goner anyway if he's headed to Atlanta.

"I hope they don't fight again." Bragi chimes in her little paw grabbing at his ear lobe.

Carl huffs, shaking his head as he throws another pebble into the fire pit, satisfied when the little stone clatters against the others. "They're just workin' stuff out."

Bragi leaps off his shoulder, shifting into a crow with a throaty caw as she circles Carl's head, trying to encourage him to follow.

Carl shakes his head, scuffing his heels against the ground as he slumps further in his seat. "Shane said to stay put."

Bragi lands at his feet, her wings drooping and head dipping as she shakes her tail feathers out. "Since when do you do what he says?"

"Since the world fuckin' ended." Carl bites back, the curse leaves his mouth unbidden and he looks around, wide eyes expecting his mom to come barreling out of the woods to scold him.

Luckily, Bragi's the only one who hears him and she gives him a hearty peck on the ankle with a half-hearted reprimand. "Language."

"Like you're any better, asshole." Carl laughs, it's a hearty thing that hasn't left him in quite some time, even before the apocalypse, brought on not because of anything particularly funny but rather some tipping point between anger and audacity.

"Funny joke?" Dale walks up, his trusty rifle always in hand, fishing hat permanently attached to his head and Pasithea laying out like a scaley pancake on his shoulder. The older man takes Carl's silence as an invitation, sitting on one of the coolers across the fire pit.

Bragi shifts back into a mouse, scampering up Carl's body until she's sitting safely at the junction of his neck, quiet anxious squeaks filling his ears.

Carl nods in greeting, fidgeting with a string on his shirt as he wonders if he should say anything in return.

It's not that Dale is a particularly intimidating guy, in fact he's the opposite, looking more like a grandpa that's permanently on vacation than someone who could survive the apocalypse. But, he's a resourceful bastard and Carl's grateful that he's always willing to help strangers out with what seems like an unending kindness and a gentle demeanor.

It reminds him of his dad and maybe that's why Carl is always so reluctant to talk to Dale, the older man is just another reminder.

"How're you holding up?"

Carl looks up, meeting the man's eyes for a moment before he trains them back on the ground. "'m good."

Dale nods, drumming his fingers against the cooler's lid as he looks out to the camp, more importantly to the spot where Shane and Lori had disappeared. "And your mom- she doing alright?"

Carl can hear the concern in Dale's voice, the very same concern he saw in the older man's eyes when he'd met Shane and laid eyes on Cailleach's imposing figure. He knows what people think about Shane, he knows what they think about his mom and Shane, he knows what they whisper about-- Bragi hears all of it-- but they're wrong.

Cailleach is strong, strong like Shane, and she can take down walkers with her impressive jaws and powerful paws. She keeps everyone safe, just like Shane keeps everyone safe.

Shrugging in response, Carl tries not to give away his agitation. "I guess."

Pasithea decides this is the perfect time for a rather long yawn, the little spikes on the lizard's throat puffing out as she shifts her legs, one little eye blinking open to level Carl with an unimpressed stare.

Carl narrows his eyes at the lizard, challenging the dæmon to speak up. When Pasithea simply closes her eyes, her body rising and falling with a deep sigh, Carl wonders if he'll end up with a dæmon as useless as her.

Bragi seems to sense this contempt, trying to shift into something bigger but only managing to retain a mountain lion form for a few heartbeats before the sensation of stretching their soul too thin starts to burn.

Disappointed, Bragi stamps her little crow feet against the ground, clicking her beak loudly in frustration.

 _Damnit_.

Carl scoops Bragi up, whispering an apology to her as she settles in his arms, feathers still ruffled from her failure.

"Don't try and force it, son." Dale offers his reassurance, wagging a finger in the air, "She may not've settled yet, but the soul is a finicky thing."

"I know." Carl frowns, pressing Bragi closer to his chest. "We just wanna be able to help out more."

Dale's face crumples slightly as he shifts the rifle in his grip in order to lean forward and place a steady hand on Carl's shoulder. "You're helping out just fine."

"Yeah but if she was a lion…" Carl trails off, not finishing the part of the sentence about how if Bragi was a lion she could protect his mom better, she could protect Sophia and the other kids, she could protect everyone.

Bragi gives a little squawk, biting at Carl's fingers with her beak in a silent gesture that says, let it go-- it's okay-- I'm sorry.

"If she was a lion, she'd be too big to fit in the car." Dale raises his eyebrows, "A bigger dæmon isn't better, they're just bigger. You know I had an uncle with a boa constrictor and good lord she was as cumbersome as they come." Dale laughs, shaking his head before his smile drops into a more serious line.

A hand lands on Carl's shoulder again, prompting him to look up.

"Listen son, you're a strong kid and you have a strong soul. Don't forget that." Dale gives him one last clap on the shoulder before he takes up his rifle and walks away, resuming his spot in front of his RV.

After the older man's departure, Carl draws on the ground absentmindedly with a half charred branch from the long dead fire. Bragi is hopping around as a rabbit chasing the stick as it does lazy loops in the dry dirt and dead grass.

Carl leans his chin on his fist as he thinks of his dad and his fierce dæmon, wishing he could be like them, wishing they were here with their steadfast resilience in the face of danger. He knows what Shane and Cailleach saw but it's hard for him to understand that they're really dead when Carl didn't see it for himself.

Bragi stops suddenly, her back foot thumping against the ground as her ears prick _. I hear shouting_.

Tossing the stick back onto the fire pit, Carl sets a brisk pace through the camp, beelining for the tent they call home as Bragi hops ahead of him.

He expects to still hear them screaming as he approaches the half unzipped tent entrance but, instead it's quiet and as he peers inside he startles, caught like a deer in the headlights as he watches his mom kiss Shane.

"Mom?" It kind of just slips out of Carl's mouth and it makes both adults leap apart, Shane ushering him away to do his chores in the next breath. The man saying empty words that fall on deaf ears as he tries to explain to Carl what he'd stumbled on.

He follows the man to the quarry, his mind a jumble of thoughts as he processes the information. He had a feeling his mom and Shane were a couple, but actually seeing solid evidence of it was so much more visceral than the feelings he often gleans from Caillech and Narreh when they brush against him.

Resentment for his mom bubbles up in his stomach, like an acid that creeps up to eat at his heart. He always thought of Shane as a cool uncle but he could never replace his dad, just as Cailleach could never replace Wōden.

He misses them terribly in that moment, more so than he did when Shane first told him with tears in his eyes and Cailleach whining in distress at his side.

Shane's fatherly hand on Carl's shoulder starts to feel wrong, like it's the wrong person, like it's trying to replace someone and so he ducks out from under it, running ahead to the quarry so Shane doesn't see the tears in his eyes.

Bragi races after him and he can feel her grief as his own, a vicious cycle of misery generated between them.

Without a word, he grabs up one of the washboards, kneeling at the water's edge and scrubbing the dirty fabric with a vigor that splashes water in every direction.

No one says a word to him, not even Carol who watches him with an anxious gaze, her ragged hornbill dæmon clacking his beak and bobbing his head slightly in disquiet.

He's glad for their silence, keeping his eyes on his task as he feels the gentle warmth of Bragi creep up his back and wrap around his neck as she shifts into a mongoose. Her warm tears on his neck match the ones that fall down his cheeks.

 

 

 

Rick looks for the family picture he knows is tucked in the sun visor.

It's startling, he knows what the picture is supposed to look like and it's very nearly an identical copy, same outfits and poses, same smiles even but the dæmons are certainly a big difference.

It makes him believe the image is photoshopped, his brain still not quite running with the idea of souls existing on the physical plane, let alone as animals.

On his own shoulders is Wōden, giving the camera a cheeky little smile. A tiny harvest mouse clings to Carl's earlobe and some kind of lemur sits on Lori's shoulder, one of his limbs reaching around Wōden to tug the mongoose in close.

"What are they like?"

"What's who like?" Wōden continues to look out the passenger side window, paws braced against the car door. The world outside is unmoving, the car having stalled out a few minutes ago.

"Their dæmons." Rick angles the picture towards the mongoose who finally turns his head over his shoulder.

"Oh..." Wōden crosses the center console, bracing his forepaws on Rick's thigh as he peers down at the photo in Rick's hand.

Raising a paw to the picture, Wōden hovers over the lemur like dæmon on Lori's shoulder. "That's Narreh and he's the most stubborn sumbitch I've ever met. Still wouldn't trade him for the world."

There's very clearly love in the mongoose's voice, a fondness and compassion that runs so deep that it frightens Rick because he doesn't think he's even capable of something on that level.

"He might look like a lemur but don't let him hear you say that." Wōden chuckles fondly, putting a paw to his chest and exaggerating his voice as he continues, "He's a darwinius masillae-- and he's very proud of it."

Rick rubs a thumb over the darwinius in the picture, trying to imagine what he sounds like, what life must've been like with him constantly by Lori's side, how that makes things different, how that shapes their relationship. It's a disheartening thought, a sinking realization that he doesn't really know his wife at all because of it.

"And Bragi-" Wōden continues, gesturing to the harvest mouse now, "Well she's fierce as they come, always stickin' up for Carl-- even got them both in trouble at school a few times."

A little smile on Wōden's lips has his canines flashing, "Honestly the asshole kids deserved it for makin' fun of him."

Rick shoots Wōden a disapproving look but the mongoose ignores him, continuing to look fondly at the picture, his round ears set slightly back as the tip of his tail swishes gently.

"What about Shane?" Rick asks, tucking the picture into his shirt pocket.

Wōden looks put off for a second, perhaps upset about the picture being taken away so soon as he hops back into the passenger seat, carefully keeping his back to Rick.

Their bond, being as broken as it is, doesn't come in handy for him to suss out the mongoose's sudden attitude change, all he gets are a few hints of regret, a couple sour notes carrying through the empty space between them.

"Cailleach. She's an american alsatian, a real police dog ya know? " Wōden starts, the mongoose turning his head just enough for one orange eye to look back at Rick, "You and Shane have always been best pals-- but me and her? Strictly business partners."

Rick isn't sure what to say, so he opts for nothing, mulling over the thought that his friendship with Shane could still exist even if their souls so clearly didn't get along. It's a wild, foriegn idea that only adds to the complexity of his situation.

"When we find 'em-" Wōden begins, turning to fully face Rick, "-are you gonna tell 'em?"

"Tell 'em what?" Rick reaches over, grabbing the duffel bag from the floorboards, Wōden jumping out of the way as it very nearly knocks the mongoose out of his seat.

Pocketing his keys, securing his hat on his head and stepping out of the cruiser with the duffel bag in hand, Rick continues to speak as he moves to the trunk of the car, "That I don't remember half of who they are-- that I'm not who they remember? Yeah that'll go over real smooth."

Wōden's voice starts off muffled but picks up in volume as the mongoose leaps out onto the asphalt, "They deserve to know."

Rick grabs the jerry can and the ammo bag then, setting them both on the ground before slamming the trunk shut. "You gonna tell 'em then?

"I…" Wōden trails off, trotting at Rick's heels as he makes his way down the road, the man keeping his face forward even as his dæmon looks up at him with a searching gaze. "No but-"

"But _nothin._ " Rick snaps back, not meaning to for it to come out so harsh but it's too late to take it back, he continues on not realizing that Wōden's stopped in his tracks, narrow face scrunched and eyes downcast. "It's not important right now-- What's important is stayin' alive and findin-"

Realizing that the little click of Wōden's claws no longer fills the air next to him, Rick cuts himself off and looks back surprised to see the mongoose standing pitifully a good ways back.

Rick's shoulders drop, a sigh escaping his mouth as he hikes the ammo bag higher on his shoulder, "Come on, the sooner we find gas the sooner we get to Atlanta."

Wōden seems to say something under his breath before bounding forward, catching up to Rick within a heartbeat.

It's a silent trek, eerie in the sense that no cars come down the road and they're left to walk alone, following the double yellow lines until a house comes into view.

It's a quaint little thing, a farm sprawling behind it and the idyllic Georgia landscape surrounds it on either side. No cars sit in the gravel driveway and there is no indication of life within the white walls of the home.

Regardless, Rick sets both bags on the ground, continuing forward with the jerry can in hopes that the people are simply hiding inside.

"Hello? Police officer out here!"

Wōden hisses, butting his head against Rick's covered ankle. "Quit shoutin' idiot."

At the mongoose's insistence, Rick tries a quieter approach opting to head straight up the porch and to the front door. Things don't bode well when he notices the front door and windows lack any form of barricade, the best sign being they remain unbroken.

He removes his hat so he can peek through the glass unobstructed, Wōden hanging back on the steps behind him anxiously peering about like a meerkat on the lookout.

"Hello? Anybody home?" Rick tries calling again, this time rapping his knuckles against the door. Still no one and nothing stirs from within so he moves to his left, trying his luck with the window there.

When that yields nothing, he looks through the final window, having to cup his hands against the glass because of the glare.

He regrets this almost instantly, seeing the two bodies, one sprawled on the floor and the other propped up on the couch, the rifle still caught in the dead man's grasp as the words smeared in blood behind him stand testament to what happened.

_God Forgive Us_

Rick backs away, taking a second to compose himself before he practically stumbles off the porch supporting himself on the handrail as he takes the steps down.

"What'd you see? Are there people-- Can they help us?" Wōden's questions are quick, rapid fire things that fill the air but do little to stop that ominous pounding of dread in Rick's ears.

"No, nobody's home." With those words, Rick trudges to a little concrete bench adjacent to the house, falling onto the solid seat with a lifeless exhale.

He balances his hat on his knee, rubbing his hands down his face as he leans forward feeling a wave of nausea climb its way up his throat. For the first time he thinks about how Carl and Lori are probably dead, how everyone he's ever known is probably dead, by their own hand like the couple in the house or by the cruel rotting fingers of the undead.

Rubbing a hand on the back of his neck, he looks up to the sky, blinking up at the clear blue sky wondering if a God he's never really believed in stares back at him.

 _There's a car_.

Rick snaps his gaze to the left, following the faint lingering sensation the thought leaves in his mind like the twang of a string stretched between a tin can telephone.

There is indeed a car, a red and brown vehicle that's seen better days but looks otherwise functional.

Wōden is already making his way through the untrimmed grass around the car's tires, his long tail disappearing in the swath of green stalks. A moment later, his head pops up above the high grass, pink tongue wetting his nose as he waits for Rick.

With renewed hope, Rick makes it to the car his luck turned for the better when the door pops open but, quickly plummeting again when there's no sign of keys anywhere.

"Shit. We should try the house then-" Wōden speaks up, having managed to climb his way into the driver's seat to assist in Rick's search.

Rick stares back at the house, reluctance weighing at his limbs. He really doesn't want to be any closer to the scene inside than he has to be. Steeling himself, he leaves the door ajar and makes the trek back to the house, it somehow feels much longer, each step making him wish he were headed the other direction and slowing him down to the point where he feels as if he's dragging himself through a tar pit.

Thankfully, a whinny interrupts his internal struggle and stops him in his tracks.

Following the sound he sees a tan horse grazing quietly in a pasture, the animal watching him with a careful gaze and ears swiveled forward.

"Think I got a better idea." Rick calls to Wōden, the mongoose voicing his doubts rather loudly as he slinks over to see what the fuss is about.

"A horse-- _really_?" His dæmon manages to give him a skeptical look despite his lack of eyebrows. "You haven't ridden since you were in grade school."

Rick's already moving towards the pasture and more importantly the barn that connects to it. "It's like ridin' a bike ain't it?"

Wōden sputters, an incredulous little sound leaving him as he blinks rapidly and races to catch up to Rick's longer strides. "No, in fact I'm pretty sure it's _nothin_ like that."

"Still worth a shot." Rick grabs the lead for the horse, not deterred by Wōden's comments, passing the mongoose and heading for the corral with a determined stride.

"I'm gonna go on the record and say this is a bad idea." Wōden calls after Rick, climbing his way up the fence post where Rick's sheriff hat now hangs, to watch from afar and more importantly keep a safe distance from stomping hooves.

Rick holds out an open palm to the horse, getting lower and making his voice higher as he speaks, "Hey, easy now. Easy."

The horse neighs, tossing its head and flattening its ears but it doesn't flee. Rick takes this as a good sign, moving closer, "I'm not gonna hurt you. Nothin' like that."

The horse seems to calm down a bit, it's ears pricking back up in interest and it's head lowering.

"More like a proposal." It still gives a gentle snort when he steps closer but, it seems to recognize his intentions are friendly.

"Atlanta is just down the road a ways. It's safe there-- food, shelter, people." Rick doesn't know why he talks to it like it'll respond, maybe he's just become accustomed to animals talking back. "Other horses too, I bet."

Rick leans down, giving the horse a friendly smile as he closes in the last few feet between them. "How's that sound?"

He swears he hears a faint laugh from Wōden as he slips the lead around the horses neck, ignoring the sound he continues to coo soft praises as he leads it to the barn.

Wōden speaks up as they pass, balancing on the fence like an alley cat on a brick wall. "I get this whole dæmon thing's new to you -- but that's just a horse."

Leaping onto Rick's shoulders as he passes, Wōden doesn't see the tiny eye roll that's directed at him.

After some initial struggles, Rick manages to tack up the horse, satisfied that he still remembers something of value from those riding lessons in his youth. It's worth the struggle, a horse is a lot more reliable than a car at the moment.

He abandons the jerry can and the duffel bag, stuffing what supplies can fit alongside the ammo and weapons, the books still tucked safely at the bottom of the bag as well as the walkie talkie. He doesn't part with them, even though they add weight he doesn't think he'd be able to leave them behind- they're a tangible connection to real, living people, not just the hope of some who may or may not be alive.

Wōden clings to his shoulder, a permanent and familiar fixture there, casting wary glances at the horse below as if it'd personally threatened him. They head out, leaving the little farm house behind, the ammo bag strapped securely across Rick's chest and the barrels of the rifles clacking loudly with each hoofbeat.

Trying to kick the horse into a trot doesn't exactly go as planned and they end up in a canter that quickly accelerates as they zoom past the tree line. Wōden holds on to Rick for dear life, a panicked chirp escaping him as he crouches low beneath the brim of Rick's hat. The horse races forward at a gallop, not slowing until its run a fair distance down the road.

As the glass and steel monoliths of the city rise before them, the forests and fields swap for burnt out cars and looted store fronts along the highway. The inbound lane they trek in on is empty, not a single car broken down or otherwise, it's just them and the jam-packed lanes on the other side of the median.

Wōden eyes the gridlocked cars in the outbound lane, the line of twisted and charred metal seems to stretch on all the way back to the heart of Atlanta.

"What if there is no refugee center?"

Rick doesn't answer, keeping his eyes forward and his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Crossing bridges, train tracks and heading through abandoned parking lots is as disheartening as it is disturbing. Walkers don't even stir and shamble after them, the streets remain resolutely empty aside from plastic bags that amble across their path like tumbleweeds.

Evidence of a military presence starts to pop as they head deeper, blockades, abandoned humvees and tanks litter the streets and sidewalks.

The first sign of life comes in the slow crescendo of a helicopter's blades, filling the air with its thunderous din.

Wōden hears it first, urging Rick to race after it as its shattered reflection races across the windows of a skyscraper high above them.

Rick urges the horse into a gallop, sprinting down the road with hope burning anew in his chest, pleading with fate that the chopper will lead them to the refugee center. They don't get far, the breakneck sprint devolving into a dead stop as the horse rears up with a hoarse cry and they nearly run smack dab into a sea of walkers.

Hope burns away into fear, panic screaming through Rick's veins as Wōden hisses in his ear and his hands yank at the reins until the horse lurches in the opposite direction.

With great heaving breaths, the horse runs, powerful legs propelling it as far from the threat as it can get, its eyes wide in fear and its ears flat against its head, the weight on its back doing little to slow it down.

The sound of furious hoofbeats draws the attention of walkers, all of them shambling into the streets seemingly from every nook and cranny, effectively clogging all routes of escape.

The horse rears up again, this time trying to bring its hooves down on the approaching walkers but cold dead hands grab its head, its neck, its back, and any part they can reach until the hoofed animal can do little more than scream.

Terrified Rick kicks at the fingers that tangle in his clothes, trying to drag him off the saddle and into hungry, snapping jaws but with both hands off the reins, the horse gives one final effort to kick at its attackers and unwittingly sends its riders crashing to the asphalt.

Dazed by a substantial hit to the head, Rick watches as the horse goes down hard, it's cries mingling with the horrible snarls of the dead as they rip into its belly with abandon. They all converge on the downed meal until Rick can no longer see any part of the horse and shortly after that he no longer hears its blood chilling screams.

Sharp teeth scrape his shoulder and launch him out of his cataonic state, he aims a punch at whatever bit him, expecting to see the decaying face of a walker and have his fate sealed but instead it's Wōden, tugging at his uniform with all his might.

His fist connects with the mongoose's head, too late to stop the swing and a painful jolt seizes Rick's heart at the contact, an involuntary cough punching out of him as if he'd been kicked in the sternum.

Wōden seems to shake it off instantly, letting go of the tan fabric to scream in Rick's face as the man stays sprawled on his back, eyes glazed and wide.

"Get up! Fuckin' get _up_!"

Rick scrambles at these words, blinking away the paralyzing grip of terror long enough to sprint after his dæmon, the mongoose diving for cover under a tank as shuffling feet close in on every side.

Rick follows suit, scraping his elbows on the concrete as he crawls under the tank like a cockroach under a cabinet.

He doesn't expect the walkers to follow suit, the corpses getting on their hands and knees to make their way after them.

He speeds up, throwing himself towards the other end of the tank, salvation so close in that clear, unobstructed sliver of light only for it to be dashed away with feet blocking out the light like a storm cloud.

Backpedaling as walkers come at them from both sides, Rick looks about with the desperate energy of a rabbit cornered in a foxhole, eyes rolling and panting breaths coming so fast it makes his vision blur.

There's nowhere for them to go. Rotting hands swipe at Wōden as the mongoose dances around them, spit flying from his mouth as he holds it wide open in a threatening hiss. One gets a grip on his tail and Rick feels the touch like its a cold fist plunged through his stomach.

Drawing his gun without hesitation he fires at the walker, burying a bullet in its skull that forces its grip to open and release the mongoose who leaps away from it and presses in close to Rick.

More keep coming and the gunshots just draw them in like moths to a flame but he has little choice other than to keep firing. He's down to the last round in the chamber, now curled up on his side as he tries to escape the reaching hands. Wōden is tucked safely against his middle, his screeching snarls filling the air.

He looks down at his dæmon, the little mongoose crouched low and bristling, scared out of his wits but still spitting and lunging at the fingers that stray too close.

Fingers snag his uniform, nails pressing through the fabric and he knows it's only a matter of time before they reach the skin, before they eat him alive, before he feels the unimaginable pain of teeth in his flesh as he's turned inside out. Pain that won't just be his own but also his dæmon's until he's drawn his last breath.

So he turns the gun to his temple, finger on the trigger. "I'm sorry."

Wōden leaps up then, sinking his teeth deep into Rick's forearm and forcing the man's aim to be off.

The pistol goes off, the bullet ricocheting off the metal underbelly of the tank but luckily it does little more than embed itself in a walker.

"Above you!" Wōden cries, teeth and gums stained red with blood.

Rick rolls onto his back, still shocked by the bite and subsequent failed suicide attempt but seeing the open hatch above, he hoists himself into the tank Wōden leaping off of him like a springboard to get inside.

He closes the hatch, letting his pistol drop from his hands with a clatter on the metal grating as he kicks away from it and clutches at the weeping bite on his forearm. He doesn't stop until his spine hits solid metal.

"Holy shit. You really pulled the fuckin' trigger." Wōden whispers, staring down at the closed hatch, blood dripping down his jowls. A quick paw comes up to wipe it away and a shiver passes through Wōden's frame, the little mammal hunching over as if he's about to be sick.

Gulping, Rick sits against the wall, hand still clutched around his forearm as he tries to get oxygen to his brain with rapid heaving pants.

Red dribbles in little rivulets from between his fingers. It stings, a throbbing pain that usually accompanies irregular puncture wounds but it hurts in a deeper, metaphysical way that transcends flesh and bone.

His eyes drift to the side, noticing the body clad in fatigues slumped next to him. More importantly, he notices the beretta pistol in the holster and he reaches for it with numb, fumbling fingers.

He's about to check the clip when the body starts to move with a familiar groaning growl, not thinking he aims and pulls the trigger only to drop the pistol instantly as the world whites out from the sound.

He clamps his hands over his ears trying to shield himself from the deafening din but the damage had already been dealt.

Stumbling he tries to escape the sound, his mind reeling as he looks for a way out. Wōden doesn't fair much better, having fallen onto his side with his mouth opening and shutting in rapid succession as his paws push uselessly at the ground.

Rick stands there practically concussed by the sound until he spots a hatch leading to the outside. Opening it, light and sound pours in as his eardrums finally stop ringing like the triangle in a symphony.

He sits there watching as the streets fill with more and more walkers all pushing to get closer to the tank, hands reaching and nails scraping the metal with a hideous sound. Fortunately, they seem incapable of climbing but that does little to quell Rick's uneasiness at the scene as the bodies start to line up five walkers deep. A proverbial circle of death worthy of Dante's inferno.

Closing the hatch, he falls back to the metal floor of the tank. He draws his knees up to his chest and presses the back of his palm to his forehead, staring out at the tanks interior before him and wondering if this is the place he's meant to die in.

Seeing the uniform clad body in his peripherals reminds him of the beretta he'd dropped. Desperate, he grabs it up with the haste of a raccoon swiping cat food from a front porch. He checks the clip, seeing it's nearly full he slides the magazine back inside.

"Good." Wōden speaks up, clear venom in his voice that echoes with a hollow sound in the tank. "Plenty of bullets if you still wanna kill us." He spits the last two words out, baring his canines with a curl of his lips.

Rick doesn't respond, raising the gun slowly to his head, not to aim at his temple this time but to simply stay crouched there, forehead resting against the cool metal of the barrel.

They are well and truly fucked.

The radio starts up with a high whine and a crackle, a voice of all things coming through.

"Hey you."

"You're hearin' that too right?" Wōden whispers, his anger seeming to have melted away in the face of sheer surprise. Staring at the dangling receiver they both share the same dumbfounded expression as the voice comes through again, proving it isn't some one off hallucination.

"Yeah, you-- the dumbass in the tank-- you cozy in there?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carl: Bragi (unsettled; harvest mouse, common crow, cottontail rabbit, Indian grey mongoose)
> 
> Dale: Pasithea (bearded dragon)
> 
> Shane: Cailleach (american alsatian dog)
> 
> Lori: Narreh (darwinius masillae) 
> 
> Rick: Wōden (Indian grey mongoose)
> 
>  
> 
> Here's a link to Chapter 3's guide (take a moment and just bask in the glory of HelixaHallwood's photoshop skills):
> 
> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1fdvnre4dSGOp7VclYYlXmYnh03gnjy2CYwJ2o6acAMs/edit?usp=drivesdk


	4. Hope is the only bee that makes honey without flowers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty meh in my opinion, so apologies for that in advance.

Glenn waits, looking down at the tank on the street below he wonders if the man inside is even still alive. Perhaps he's already eaten a bullet and this whole rescue mission is as futile as their chances of ever getting out of the city in one piece.

The walkie in his hand gives a plastic creak in protest as he grips it tighter, listening to the static and crackle of white noise.

It's been a good minute, still nothing. Soo-min scuttles anxiously up his arm and onto his hand, her wings flicking once as she approaches the radio device, her little legs dancing on the plastic and antenna twitching.

The bumblebee is practically on top of the speaker when she turns to face Glenn. "Should we try again?"

Frowning, he leans further over the railing knowing full well it won't help him see through the metal skin of the tank but doing it anyway. Just as he raises the walkie to his mouth a voice finally comes through.

"Hello? Hello?" It's panicked and out of breath but clear as day.

A sigh rushes out of Glenn, "There you are. You had us wondering."

Soo-min quickly flits out of the way, flying up to her favorite spot on the brim of Glenn's baseball hat. He feels her relief resonate through him but there's also an undertone of anxious energy that isn't entirely unjustified.

"Where are you? Are you outside?" The man sounds even more panicked. "Can you see me right now?"

"Yeah." Glenn answers, a part of him wondering if this is even still a good idea or perhaps he's just giving this man false hope. "We can see you-- you're surrounded by geeks, that's the bad news."

The reply is almost immediate, "There's good news?"

For just a heartbeat he mulls over his answer but, he doesn't need any real deliberation, "No."

And yeah, maybe it's not the answer this guy wants to hear but fuck it, honesty is just about the only thing he still holds on to. Soo-min doesn't agree and he can feel the heated glare she shoots him but she doesn't comment beyond a brief buzz of her wings.

"Look whoever you are--" The man sounds agitated now, "I don't mind tellin' you, I'm a little concerned in here."

Alright, a bit of a red flag, Glenn thinks. Anyone trapped in a tank surrounded by the undead is of course entitled to their anger and desperation but, the word choice excludes the man's dæmon which is just odd.

Perhaps it's nothing but still it sends an uncomfortable feeling down his spine, a bone deep chill that makes him reach up and remind himself that his dæmon is still right there as always.

But, he's committed to this already, no matter the man's mental state, he's not going to just bail on him.

A nervous laugh escapes his lips as he presses the receiver, "Oh man, you should see it from our end."

Glenn watches as more of the undead join their pals in the dog pile devouring the horse. "You'd be having a major fucking freakout."

"Any advice for me?"

He feels Soo-min's discomfort at the wording of the question, it echoes his own with the intensity of someone scratching at a sunburn, painful and itchy-- a warning. A silent question passes between them that leaves a considerable lull in the conversation.

_Is this worth it?_

And of course, the answer is yes -- it's always yes. No matter what hang ups, or anxieties he has about severed dæmoms, at the end of the day they're still people and dammit he's not stooped so fucking low as to let someone die based on that alone. The world needs all the survivors it can get.

Begrudgingly, Soo-min agrees, still anxious she paces the length of the hat's brim filling the air with a low hum.

"I'd say make a run for it." Glenn cringes inwardly the moment the words leave his mouth, he knows how bad they sound.

"That's it-- _make a run for it?_ " The man's voice is edging into annoyed and another voice in the background cuts in but it's too muffled to understand, assuming it's the man's dæmon they sound understandably pissed the hell off.

"Look-" Glenn starts, a bit of indignation bleeding into his voice, "It's not as dumb as it sounds."

"The geeks can't climb the tank and the others are joining that--" Glenn hesitates eyeing the group of geeks shoveling red bits into their mouths, "feeding frenzy where your horse went down. With me so far?"

"So far."

"The street on the other side of the tank is less crowded, if you move now you stand a chance." Glenn moves away from the edge of the roof, making his way to where the fire escape goes down the building in a dizzying vertical drop. "You got ammo?"

"In the duffel bag I dropped out there--"

"Forget the bag." Glenn interrupts him, adjusting the backpack on his shoulders as he eyes the bright yellow rungs of the ladder. "It's not an option. What do you have on you?"

"Hang on."

Glenn nods even though the other man won't see it. Looking down at the end of the alley, he sees that the barricade is still in place, the fence and dumpster combo someone had used is still effectively keeping the walkers out and his path clear. His only obstacle now is the daunting dissent down the side of the building.

He starts down the fire escape, knowing that time is of the essence and any hesitation can and will lead to someone's death, whether it be his or not.

Soo-min buzzes around his fingers, silently ensuring his hands remain firmly gripped to the rungs. Halfway down the walkie crackles to life once more.

"I got a beretta with one clip, 15 rounds."

 _Shit, he's gonna die_. Soo-min's thought is doused in pessimism like fire wood drenched in kerosene before the first match is thrown.

Stopping on the last ten or so rungs, Glenn grips the ladder with one hand the other pressing the receiver as his heart pounds in his chest and his fingers feel too sweaty. "Make 'em count. Jump off the right side of the tank, keep going that direction. There's an alley maybe fifty yards-- be there."

With those words, he makes it to the platform of the fire escape, another shorter ladder still below him when the man's voice comes through again.

"Hey, what's your name?"

Incredulous Glenn looks at Soo-min, the bee hovering in front of him and they both share a look, in the special way that only a person and their insect dæmon can, both pondering that this man could very well be the stupidest person left on Earth. "Have you been listening? You're running out of time!"

No reply answers them and Glenn looks skyward, praying that this guy's finally got the message.

Finally down in the alley, Glenn moves the dumpster out and away from it's sentinel against the fence. Shots ricochet through the air not a second later and Soo-min alights on Glenn's person once more, the little hooks at the end of her limbs gripping into the fabric of his hat, a mirror of how he grips the loops of the fence, ready to pull it back at any second.

The gunshots have drawn the walkers down the street and Glenn watches as the man comes into view moments later, sheriff's uniform and all.

Shot for shot he barely misses, a bullet finding its new home in rotting flesh and mushy skull nearly every time. It's impressive if not terrifying in the same breath.

Pulling the fence back, Glenn rushes out to usher him in only to find a pistol in his face.

"Whoa-- not dead!" He and Soo-min shout, hands up and desperately trying not to die by the hands of a trigger happy cop.

Stopping the sheriff's deputy in his tracks, Glenn locks eyes with the mongoose on the man's shoulder, all of his highschool lessons in dæmonology and soul symbolism in literature come flooding back to him in an intrusive flood, an unstoppable tidal wave of doubt and worry.

He realizes with a sense of dread that this might not be such a good idea but it's far too late to back out now.

The groans of the dead grow louder and Glenn turns tail, fleeing back down the alley, screaming over his shoulder, hoping the man doesn't lag behind.

The walkers might be slow enough to outrun but that doesn't make them less of a threat. They certainly don't want to end up cornered in the alley by a hundred of the drooling things, dying pitifully under rotting nails and nasty teeth as their salvation taunts them yards away in the form of a bright yellow ladder.

That thought has Glenn's heart pounding impossibly fast in his chest as he tugs at the sleeve of the man's uniform, urging him to keep running instead of shooting.

The sheriff's deputy keeps hesitating, looking back over his shoulder as if he can't quite comprehend the sight that chases their heels.

"Hurry up!" Glenn climbs the ladder with such speed that someone would think he's born for it. Really it's just the adrenaline and he's surprised that the sweat accumulating on his palms didn't send him right back down to the concrete.

Doubled over and panting, his heart still feeling as if it's skipping beats and ready to leap from his chest, Glenn senses Soo-min eye the mongoose dæmon as the man finally clambers up onto the platform.

 _A mongoose? Really_ \-- Her thought is all exasperation, edged with distrust that pricks at Glenn's mind. _This guy's gonna be a complete pain in the ass._

He can't say he completely disagrees with Soo-min. The few people he'd known with mongoose dæmons were all hard-headed, stubborn folks who didn't know when they'd lost a fight and threw their weight around, demanding respect through copious amounts of strong arming.

Then again, he'd only ever known two people like that and both happened to be his teachers in highschool.

Still, between breaths Glenn cant help the sarcasm that shoots from his mouth. "Nice going there Clint Eastwood, you the new sheriff come riding in to clean up the town?"

"Wasn't _our_ intention." Unexpectedly, it's the mongoose who hurls back. However when Glenn's attention snaps to the dæmon the little mammal's anger is directed at the very person he perches on.

It's not the fact that the dæmon is the same sex that bothers him.

What bothers him is the seething look, the sheer unfiltered disappointment and anger that rolls off the mongoose while the guy just stands there, a relatively neutral expression in his bright blue eyes still blown with fear.

"Yeah, whatever. _Yeehaw_." Glenn looks away, not comfortable locking eyes with the agitated mongoose for more than a heartbeat. "You're both still dumbasses."

It's out of sync, it's unnatural, it violates everything he understands about his own dæmon and there definitely isn't time to dwell on it.

"Rick - thanks." The guy introduces himself, thanking Glenn in the same breath as he holds out his hand.

Pausing a beat, he waits for Rick to introduce his dæmon but when the silence stretches on from awkward to downright inexcusable territory he realizes that's not going to happen.

Just another thing to add to the steadily growing list, Glenn thinks sourly.

Maybe, he reasons, Rick is from one of those backwater little towns where things are just 'different' but then again, the Dixons are from the goddamn boonies and they still aren't this out of touch.

The mongoose seems to shake his head speaking in a low voice he fills in the gap for his counterpart. "Wōden."

With that, Glenn takes the proffered hand, giving it a firm shake. "Glenn and Soo-min --You're welcome."

Rick seems to tilt his head for a moment, eyes searching his person before settling on the area above Glenn's forehead, right at the brim of his hat.

The deputy's eyes widen a fraction

_Why's he looking at me like that?_

Soo-min's thought is so shot through with anxiety that Glenn reaches up to cup the little dæmon in his hands. Pulling her to his chest he narrows his eyes, watching Rick carefully as Soo-min tucks herself into the furthest corners of his clasped palms.

The deputy looks a lot more surprised by Soo-min than he has any right to be, it's as if he'd never seen an insect dæmon in his life.

They weren't uncommon, in fact of the billions of people on Earth quite a few had insect souls, and they were hardier and less fragile than their dustless counterparts. Often times they were more convenient for the overcrowded cities and the fast paced, tightly packed ways of modern life.

When Rick doesn't elaborate beyond a narrowing of his eyes, Glenn turns to the ladder.

With an intense desire to dispel the tension Glenn tries on a smile, letting Soo-min crawl her way onto the straps of his backpack as he grabs the rungs.

"Bright side? It'll be the fall that kills us. I'm a glass half full kinda guy." His smile falters when he looks back at Rick, spotting the writhing undead who clog the alleyway beyond him.

The climb is no more difficult than the sprint down the alley that brought them both here.

The hard part is the stretch of silence that allows more and more questions to rattle around in Glenn's head, Soo-min only aggravating things as she adds her own worries to the pile.

They're crossing over to the next rooftop when Rick speaks up and boy does a part of Glenn wish the deputy would've just kept his mouth shut.

"Your dæmon's a _bee_?"

"Yeah, thought that was pretty obvious."

Man, Glenn thinks, what rock did this guy crawl out from under. First he shoots willy nilly in the middle of Atlanta, where the dead outnumber the living ten thousand to one and now he's asking questions that a two year old could answer.

"How does she stay safe, I mean couldn't she get crushed?"

Glenn stops in his tracks, wondering if that's supposed to be a joke or a genuine question.

He swears Wōden hisses something in the deputy's ear, the mongoose baring his wicked canines as he leans in close to Rick's ear. The words are unintelligible but it's very clearly some warning that has Rick shutting his mouth and casting his eyes to the ground.

 _Remind me why we didn't just leave them in the tank?_ Soo-min thinks with no shortage of exasperation.

As if the question had never been asked, Glenn lets it evaporate into nothing, joining the past as quickly as it had joined the present. He does little more than silently reassure Soo-min but it's weak with his own trepidations.

Regardless he continues on, Rick still at his heels as the access door to the roof comes into view.

Hurrying into a jog he practically skids into a crouch, frantic to get the door open just so he can head back to another shitty situation and hopefully find a way to solve it as well-- _yippee_.

"Why'd you stick your neck out for me-- us?" Rick seems to catch himself this time, finally adopting more dæmon inclusive syntax.

It's progress, Glenn thinks as he shuffles off the straps of his bag and tosses it down into the darkness below, Soo-min careful to make her way onto his collar lest she go down with it. The little hooks of her feet prick his skin as her antenna tickle his neck in a nervous dance.

"Call it foolish, naive hope that if we're ever that far up shit creek somebody might do the same for us." He lowers himself down onto the rungs of the rusty ladder, frankly more scared of this one failing than the taller one they'd just conquered.

Looking up at Rick he gives a little self-deprecating smile. "Guess we're even bigger dumbasses than you."

 

The journey through the dilapidated building is quiet, just heavy breathing and thudding steps remain as the only echoes of life but they're close now, the door to the department store is just down the outside stairwell and across the alley.

Grabbing up the walkie in his belt, he switches channels and presses the receiver. "We're back. Got a guest, plus four geeks in the alley."

And four geeks there certainly are, as they step down the last step the undead quickly latch onto their movement and scent, shambling towards them like they're an all you can eat buffet. They might as well be with how horrendously unarmed they are.

Glenn considers fleeing right back up the stairs, Soo-min on board with that train of thought when the door across the way slams open and two familiar figures come barreling out, in full riot gear with bats in hand.

Morales and T-Dog reign down on rotten flesh and brittle bone, blow after blow with no hesitation, hairless dog and coatimundi snarling by their respective sides.

"Let's go!" Glenn sprints past them praying Rick gets the memo and follows suit.

Thankfully the man catches on and they barrel through the open door, the others on their heels not a moment later.

Glenn is just barely halfway to composing himself when Andrea barrels past him, unintentionally shoulder checking him as she beelines straight for Rick. Her pistol is drawn and raised as Serapion bristles at her heels and hisses up a storm.

The tabby cat's fur stands on end as his pupils narrow to slits and Rick's dæmon leaps down to meet the cat with an expression to match.

Without hesitation, and frankly little resistance Andrea shoves Rick back with an arm to his chest, angry words punching out of her throat as she fists her hand in his shirt to keep him in place.

"You son of a bitch-- we oughta kill you."

For Rick's sake, he seems to hold his composure much better than his dæmon does and Glenn's left wondering if he should try to step in between the two dæmon's or try to force his way between the two people, one of whom is pissed off beyond belief and decidedly armed.

Both choices aren't ideal and he finds himself frozen in place as usual, feeling like a total dumbass while Soo-min urges him to do something.

"Just chill out, Andrea. Back off." Morales warns, still stripping riot gear off as fast as his hands can move.

Fortunately his dog dæmon takes the lead, a loud bark leaving her maw as she forces herself between the two spitting dæmons, ears pricked and tail rigid.

"Knock it off, Serapion." Huythaca echoes Morales, all the while managing to encapsulate the same exasperated air of a substitute teacher come to break up a school yard fight for the hundredth time.

Serapion shoots back a nasty curse at Huythaca, spitting in the bigger dæmon's face just as Andrea raises her voice.

"We're all dead because of this stupid asshole!"

Like a catalyst those words seem to ignite Serapion's temper, springboarding off of Andrea's own distress until it magnifies her dæmon's rage by ten fold.

With his claws unsheathed and his teeth bared in an undignified growl, Serapion tries simply barreling past the hairless dog on a warpath for the mongoose on the other side.

The bigger dæmon doesn't take kindly to this, snapping her jaws at the tabby cat until he's cowed against the ground all the flight fleeing him in an instant until he's all wide eyes and pinned back ears an apologetic mew fleeing his throat.

Still, Serapion's tail tip twitches angrily behind him and his eyes stay locked onto the mongoose even as Huythaca thoroughly berates him.

Wōden simply curls his lips back in response but he doesn't linger, unwilling to take his chances on the ground any longer the little dæmon scurries up Rick's body with the speed of a squirrel up a tree.

Finally, when the standoff is starting to reach critical levels nigh meltdown even, Morales grabs Andrea's arm, his tone anything but friendly. "I said back the hell off."

For a few tense movements, no one moves and Glenn looks anxiously between the two, his mind nose diving right into the worst possible outcome until all he's left with are images of Andrea pulling the trigger.

Morales seems to sense this too, so he takes his hand off Andrea's forearm, holding a placating palm in the air. "Fine, pull the trigger."

 _She won't_. Soo-min reassures Glenn silently. _Serapion's pussied out_.

Turning his attention to the aforementioned dæmon, he notices that the tabby cat is calmly licking his paw, now the perfect picture of nonchalance as if he didn't just go off and embarrass himself.

There's a slight shake to the cat's frame, a telltale droop of the ears and a limp tail that belies the fury that once occupied it.

It's defeat, Glenn realizes as Andrea steps back from the sheriff's deputy, her hand still fisted in his uniform until she's forced to let go, fingers uncurling so slow and reluctant it's almost in slow motion.

"We're dead-- all of us. Dead. Because of you."

"I don't understand."

Glenn cringes inwardly at the absolute lost puppy dog look on Rick's face, this guy really is clueless and honestly he envies him in the same breath that he pities him.

"Look--" Morales grabs Rick, ushering him to the store front where dozens of the rotting corpses now pound at the glass doors. "We came into the city to scavenge supplies, you know what the key to scavenging is? _Surviving_. You know what the key to surviving is? Sneaking in and out-- not shooting up the streets like it's the okay corral."

As Morales rant ends, all they're left with is the squeak of filthy hands and twisted, broken fingers against the glass. The pounding of gnarled fists rises above the rest in such a raucous manner that it only draws more in, already they're about ten deep and it shows no signs of letting up.

"Every geek from miles around heard you." Tsīrona speaks up from T-Dog's shoulders, the usually silent coatimundi's muzzle is crinkled and her words are more growls than actual consonants, still the message is clear.

Rick and Wōden just stare, both as dumbfounded and unblinking as the other.

Already the glass is starting to break and it crackles in their ears like the most ominous bowl of Rice Krispies on the planet.

"What were you even doing out there?" Andrea asks, all accusatory and bristling as if she'd taken on Serapion's standoffish disposition.

"Tryin' to flag down the helicopter."

T-Dog scoffs, Tsīrona shaking her head with a chuff. " _Helicopter_? Man, there ain't no damn helicopter."

And now Glenn is left to stare at their impending doom, tucked away behind mere inches of glass and seriously consider the reality that the man he'd just saved is actually insane.

"You were chasing a hallucination-- imagining things." Jacqui reasons, her budgie dæmon adding, "It happens."

Wōden bristles, snapping at the parakeet. "We saw it."

In an effort to break things up before they devolve into fighting once more, Glenn butts in clearing his throat. "Hey, T-Dog could you try the C.B.-- see if you can contact the others?"

Rick turns to him as if he'd just said he was Jesus Christ himself, his face lit with such hope and awe it actually hurts. " _Others_? The refugee center?"

"Yeah--" Jacqui smiles, a thin little thing on her lips as Indra gives an unamused squawk from her shoulder. "They got biscuits waiting at the oven for us."

Well, there goes that hope.

A gunshot echoes through the air, distant but definitely from the roof above them.

And there goes ours, Glenn thinks as panic sets in anew, rattling his heart like its a game of racquetball in his chest.

Of course, when they all manage to sprint to the roof in record time, they find Merle fucking Dixon shooting off rounds like they've got ammo to waste and daylight to kill.

Glenn hangs back, not too keen on getting a bullet to the chest or a fist to the face and Soo-min tucks herself into his shirt pocket, peeking out just enough to keep an eye on the deranged Dixon and his equally deranged dæmon.

"You outta be more polite to a man with a gun. Only common sense." Merle leaps off the ledge of the roof, back onto stable ground Scout trundling after him, her wicked claws scraping the ground with a sound that'd make anyone cringe.

A part of Glenn really wishes the bastard would've just lost his balance and toppled off the other side instead.

T-Dog and Morales step up and try to talk some sense into Merle, their dæmons being the only ones who stand a chance against the raving fisher cat at Merle's side.

She's already raring and ready to fight, somehow always managing to accumulate froth around her mouth that slovers to the ground and makes her look truly as rabid as Merle.

Obscenely racist garbage spews out of Merle's mouth like it's the only language he speaks and equally disgusting vitriol flies from Scout's mouth, setting Huythaca and Tsīrona on edge.

Watching it all unfold, Glenn notices Rick sending him a helpless glance, a short nod towards the chaos serves as a silent question.

 _No_ , absolutely _not_ , Glenn motions, desperately trying to keep Rick and Merle as far away from each other as possible, continents away if he could help it. In fact if they never breathe the same air that'd be a goddamn miracle.

Of course, shit takes a nosedive about three seconds later when Scout leaps on Tsīrona, buffeting the coatimundi with relentless blows that rip up her coat and tear at the flesh below until T-Dog howls in pain and launches a fist right into Merle's nose in retaliation.

"Stop it man!"

"For fuck's sake-- let him go, Dixon!"

Blow after blow, they don't let up and Glenn races forward spurred on by genuine fear for T-Dog's life as the man is slammed face first into an iron pipe.

His daemon doesn't fair much better, Scout has her jaws wrapped around the back of the coatimundi's neck, the smaller mammal left scrabbling at the gravel as her long snout twitches with every whimper.

The killing blow is only millimeters away and all Glenn can do is stand there and scream and plead with the mad man to let the fuck up as Soo-min curls into a tighter and tighter ball in the depths of his shirt pocket.

Huythaca and Serapion, despite their size advantage hang back, fresh claw marks across their flanks bleeding a brilliant gold as dust is exposed to the humid air. With heaving flanks they hiss and they snarl, the hairless dog barking and lunging as the tabby cat arches his back and fluffs his tail.

They're all about as useful as Soo-min in this situation.

Pinned on the ground, T-Dog stops fighting, his body gone limp with the phantom sensation of canines in his neck and the pistol now shoved nearly against his teeth.

Still Scout doesn't let up, if anything she seems to dig her teeth in deeper eliciting a pained whimper from both the downed man and his dæmon.

"Please-- no, no, no." Andrea pleads, her voice cracking under the constricting grasp of fear.

All of them eye the fisher cat and the coatimundi, expecting Tsīrona to dissolve into dust at any second.

And then miraculously, the fisher cat lets go and a heartbeat later so does Merle.

Rushing forward, Glenn drags T-Dog back with Jacqui's help. Huythaca doing the same for the coatimundi sprawled lifelessly beside him.

All of them now tucked against the ledge of the roof, they huddle there looking up at Merle as he touts his new found power and asks for a vote of leadership.

Of course Glenn raises his hand, he's not about to be killed at the hands of some meth head when there's bigger fish to fry.

He seriously doesn't anticipate Rick the clueless bastard to slam the butt of a rifle into Merle's teeth, rendering the man briefly incapacitated alongside Scout.

Quick as lightning, the deputy has Merle handcuffed to the metal pipe before the redneck can even comprehend why his jaw hurts something fierce.

"Who the hell're you?" Merle slurs.

"I'm Officer Friendly." Rick answers with the composure of someone who's looked a man like Merle in the eyes many times before.

Wōden's eyes darken, orange swapping for crimson as he flashes all his teeth and leaps down to keep an eye on the dazed fisher cat by Merle's feet.

Every inch the mongoose that he's supposed to be, ready to leap into action against an adversary more than four times his size.

As Rick turns to retrieve and empty the pistol that'd been dropped, Merle laughs looking at the mongoose like he's a kitten who just learned to walk. "That's a pussy ass dæmon for a cop, the fuck's she gonna do, growl at me? I could kick her straight off the fuckin' roof, _easy_."

"It's not me you gotta worry about." Wōden warns, his voice level and dark.

Merle's laughter is uproarious then. "Oh-ho didn't realize you was a faggot, Officer Friendly."

Rick crouches down, searching Merle's pockets, his voice is the calm, coiled fury of a snake reared to strike. "All I am is a man looking for his wife and his son."

Glenn tenses up. Leave it to Merle to be so absorbed in his backwater mindset that he couldn't even acknowledge the fact that the whole stupid correlation between a dæmon's sex and a person's sexuality was proven time and time again to be utterly and plainly false.

A breath later, Scout recovers her wits with the haunting screech of a banshee in the night. Diving for Wōden she knocks the mongoose right off his paws until the two are careening across the rooftop in a tangle of teeth and claws.

The two scrape and tumble across the roof and despite Scout's imposing size, Wōden's faster, more agile, outpacing her every move and dancing around the fisher cat with ease.

Unfortunately, her paws are big; big enough to swipe through the air at random and clip the mongoose across his pink nose as he ducks and dodges.

Glenn watches the pain ricochet through Rick, the deputy tensing up as if he'd stuck a fork in a socket.

A hand instantly shoots up to cover his nose as if he'd been the one to have it sliced open not his daemon-- It's a reaction that children have, fresh in their bonds with little pain tolerance and no real resolve to shutter the connection.

And it sets something off in the deputy, his eyes hardening with the line of his brow as he simply walks over to Scout and plucks her straight off the ground by the scruff.

He makes it look so easy it's downright psychopathic.

Glenn feels three glares burn a hole through the back of his head, hell even T-Dog who's half conscious manages to look up at him with fire in his dull eyes.

Gritting his teeth, Glenn refuses to meet them because he knows exactly what they're thinking, what they're gonna say, the sheer shock and disbelief is something he can't handle because he's thinking the exact same thing.

Rick is fucking _crazy_.

"Get your filthy fuckin' hands off her pig!" Merle screams, twisting and tugging as far as he can with his chained wrist. "I'll fuckin' kill you-- ya hear me?!"

Scout echoes his cries but they're wordless screeches that sing pain and death in each swipe that misses its mark and each wild kick that nearly lands.

"He shouldn't grab her like that." Serapion murmurs, pressing closer to Andrea.

Indra flares his wings as his feathers go smooth. "She deserves it."

Rick stands there, looking put off by the fisher cat's struggles as he holds her at arms length as if she's a particularly smelly bag of garbage not a soul.

Wōden stands at his feet, the mongoose caught somewhere between open mouthed disbelief and angry silence.

It's beyond fucked up and it makes Glenn's whole chest ache, like he needs to curl in on himself to protect his middle, guard it from the world with Soo-min at the center so no one can ever hurt them.

With a hand clutched to his sternum, Merle's protests and death threats become weaker and weaker, his breath coming in harder and harder pants as if no air reaches his lungs. It's eerily reminiscent but Glenn knows full well the drug addict isn't about to kick the bucket.

Finally, his body slackens altogether, a limpness overtaking Merle's features that leaves them unnaturally soft, the constant tension in his body simply melting away until he almost seems entirely unconscious. Scout becomes a rag doll not a millisecond later.

Still Rick holds the fisher cat, moving closer to Merle with such confusion that the deputy seems genuinely surprised by the sudden lack of reaction from the redneck.

It's as if he really doesn't understand what he's done. All that looking clueless and slightly concerned as if he isn't the causation.

It sends a shiver straight down Glenn's spine to see the fisher cat's body swing like a dead weight in the deputy's hand, just like a lifeless sack of potatoes at the farmer's market.

Morales moves first, approaching Rick with the cautiousness one affords to a bear and her cubs.

The deputy looks to Morales, that lost puppy dog look overtaking his features once more and really detracting from the fact he'd just committed one of the most violating acts known to man and dæmon.

"Hey, man-- just set her down alright?" Morales inches closer, nodding to the ground and keeping his hands out as if to calm a spooked deer.

"What's wrong with him?" Rick looks from Scout, to Merle, and finally back to Morales.

" _Rick_ , just set her the fuck down." Wōden snaps, the adrenaline having burnt off into abject horror.

Something seems to dawn on the deputy. Swift and daunting like the crest of a wave over a reef, it crashes down hard, Rick's features draining of all their color as he drops Scout.

The instant she hits the solid ground she goes form boneless heap to relative awareness, the oppressive, violating touch of another person no longer overwhelming her senses. Her whole body shakes, a shiver rocketing through her frame like a dog shaking off water as she gives a nasty parting hiss in Rick's direction.

She doesn't press her luck, unwilling it seems to experience any of that again any time soon, she slinks back towards Merle with a low rumble, the fight extinguished from her.

Stepping back, Rick clutches his hand like he'd stuck his whole fist in a pot of boiling water.

Dumbstruck he looks at Morales.

"You're definitely not Atlanta PD." Is all the man can manage as he keeps a wary distance from Rick, his hairless dog dæmon pressed against his pant leg with her ears pinned back and tail tucked.

Merle says nothing, seemingly content with holding Scout in his lap as he gives Rick a look that's so murderous it shouldn't be legal.

If not for the circumstances of the redneck's silence, Glenn would be jumping for joy. Instead he's reasonably horrified, his hands shaking as he grips the ledge of the roof to hoist himself to his feet. Soo-min climbs from her hiding place, peeking out of the shirt pocket like an insect shaped pocket square.

"Good riddance--" Jacqui pipes up. "The cracker deserved to be knocked down a few pegs."

Andrea doesn't exactly share the same sentiment. "And what now-- what if this _psycho_ turns on us next?"

Oh god, things are about to go sideways again and they're still on this hellhole of a roof.

Making up his mind, Glenn jumps into action dragging Rick away to the far edge of the roof determined to prove he didn't royally fuck up by saving this guy.

"Look man, I don't know what kind of spaghetti western you stepped out of-- but _here_? That kinda shit is considered brutality." Speaking low, Glenn watches as Rick leans his forearms against the roof's ledge looking visibly shaken.

"I didn't know." Rick defends himself.

"Didn't know?" Glenn's voice jumps an octave, composing himself he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Dude, aren't you cop? It's considered a class A felony."

Rick shifts uncomfortably, still rubbing his hand as he looks out at the city skyline and Glenn gets the distinct feeling there's something more going on here than just some particularly ruthless cop abusing his power at the end of the world.

Rick looks guilty and not with just the easy farce of downcast eyes and a slight slouch. Every line of his body is rigid, leaning away from Glenn ever so subtly as he keeps rubbing his palm, as if he can scrape off every speck and trace of dust that might've been left behind.

It's starting to turn the skin red.

"Look just don't do it again, alright?" Glenn keeps his voice low, looking back at the others.

 _You have to admit she was out of control._ Soo-min argues, her thoughts echoing with self righteous vengeance and a thirst for revenge.

 _I know_. Glenn thinks sourly. _But even assholes like Merle don't deserve that._

The disagreement from Soo-min is tangible.

 

"-not a damn thing." Andrea's voice cuts through Glenn's brooding and he doesn't catch even half of what was said.

"The C.B.'s no good." Wōden's voice sounds from nearby as the mongoose scampers along the high ledge of the roof towards them. "We got no way to call for help."

Rick's dæmon doesn't immediately hop back up on the deputy's shoulders, instead there's a visible hesitation in the mongoose's movements as he looks up at Rick with a single paw slightly raised in the air.

To be honest, Glenn hadn't even realized the mongoose was missing but he's equal parts thankful and distrubed that the dæmon had been eavesdropping.

Rick gives Wōden a nod, withdrawing his hands to his sides as he squints out at the horizon. "We're on our own then. It's up to us to figure a way out."

"Right." Glenn agrees, still feeling uneasy but he manages a friendly smile in the deputy's direction.

"You tried going underground, yet?"

"Yeah, _I_ tried." Glenn does nothing to disguise the edge to his voice. "The drainage tunnel under the building-- it's not an option." Glenn remembers when Jacqui had brought up the idea.

It was only a half an hour before Rick had fired his first shot but too many geeks were already clogging the streets for them to leave safely.

They'd all been sitting on the roof like a bunch of jackasses waiting for the herd to thin out, which could very well have been after they'd died from dehydration, when something seemed to dawn on the woman as she kept an eye out with a pair of binoculars. Indra swooped excited circles around her head as excitement and hope bled into her voice when she relayed her idea.

She'd worked for the zoning office, unfortunately she didn't know about the massive metal bars that barricaded the tunnel in an unbreakable cross hatch a couple hundred feet in.

It was a good plan, it'd brought up their hopes to get the hell out of the city only for them to be dashed two fold when not only was the tunnel blocked but Rick had gone and rung the proverbial dinner bell.

And so here they are, rerunning old ideas with the man who'd caused the herd to not only double but come pounding at their door.

It was a bit of a slap in the face.

"Any _other_ bright ideas?" Glenn asks with a hint of sarcasm, making his way back to where Morales peers through the binoculars looking for even a shred of hope down the infested streets.

Glenn doesn't expect Rick to follow, but the deputy steps past him easily with longer strides as he asks to borrow the binoculars, his mongoose dæmon finally back on his shoulders.

Morales raises an eyebrow at the request, Huythaca giving a little chuff in warning as she licks her nose but otherwise the man hands the instrument off without a hitch.

Rick only looks through them for a moment before he's pressing them back into Morales hands and pointing down the road. "That construction site- those trucks. They always keep keys on hand."

Thunder rumbles softly in the distance, an ominous warning that makes Glenn eye the sky as Morales replies.

"You'll never make it past the geeks."

Rick turns to Glenn then, and he doesn't like the look in the deputy's eyes. It's too hopeful, still so full of life rather than beaten down and glazed over.

Soo-min gives a little hum in discomfort, her wings brushing together to make the impossibly quiet buzz.

"They were _distracted_." Glenn waves his hands in the air.

"Could we distract them again?" Wōden speaks for Rick again, like it doesn't violate social conventions whatsoever. Then again, those weren't really a thing anymore were they?

"Hold on, the weasel's on to something." Merle gives a low chuckle. "A _diversion_ like on Hogan's Heroes-"

"Give it a rest." Jacqui cuts the redneck off with a heated look.

"They're drawn by sound right?" Rick presses, stepping closer to Glenn and so does everyone else, closing in on him like he holds all the answers.

Taking a nervous step back, he nods. "Right, like dogs-- they hear sound they come."

"Anything else?"

"Aside from they hear you?" Morales scoffs. "They smell you, they see you and if they catch you-- they _eat_ you."

"They can smell us?"

"Can't you?" It comes out a little defensive but Glenn can't say he regrets it.

"They smell dead, we don't." Serapion chimes in, his tail lashing.

Andrea shoots the tabby cat an unamused look from the corners of her eyes, the dæmon ignoring her from where he stands comfortably on her shoulders. "He's right, it's pretty distinct."

Rick seems to mull this over, eyes sweeping the ground in a slow tracking movement before a small sigh escapes him. "We gotta smell like them then."

Rick explains his idea and it's a bad one. As Soo-min puts it, if bad ideas were an Olympic event this one would take the gold.

Now, standing in the backroom of the department store, freshly suited up in a protective layer of trench coats and gloves with a freshly killed walker at their feet, they all have the same question on their minds.

"So, who's gonna go?" Glenn is the first to speak up, he has a feeling he knows where this conversation is going and he might as well get it out of the way.

"Well it can't be any of us--" Morales gestures to half of the occupants in the semi-circle. "Our dæmons are too big."

They all turn and look at Glenn, that expectant look they'd had at the drainage tunnel once more on their faces.

"Right, yeah." Glenn looks at Soo-min clinging silently to his shoulder and for the first time they both regret the fact she'd settled as a bee.

Great, he's the only one with a small enough dæmon for that asinine plan to even work and frankly he doesn't have much of a choice.

Glenn suspects they'll try and make Jacqui go since Indra would be small enough to hide beneath a coat but then Rick speaks up. "I'll go."

"The hell are you talking about man-- that mongoose ain't exactly invisible." T-Dog looks Rick up and down, his eyes lingering on the deputy's dæmon.

"I'll leave him here."

Wōden seems to cringe at this, as if the words have physically stung him.

" _Leave him here_?" Andrea laughs, a dark little thing under her breath. "You're kidding right? That's half a mile down the road."

"Trust me, he's not." Wōden defends Rick with the reluctance of a shitty defense lawyer.

"Alright, it's settled then." Morales seems to accept it all too readily.

He's probably just glad that Rick's willing to go, they don't know the guy and they already think he's got some serious issues, so if the severed cop wants to get himself killed, so be it- they're assuming it won't be a loss.

Glenn can't help feeling like that makes him the expendable one and just as likely to not be missed.

"You don't think this is just a little insane?" Andrea questions, her fist clenching at her side as she jabs an accusatory finger at Morales. "What if it doesn't work? What if _Officer Friendly_ here drops unconscious and we're back to square one?"

Glenn knows it's not the deputy's life she's actually worried about. She's more concerned about _him_ stopping to save the dumbass and then they'll both kick the bucket.

"It's not gonna happen." Rick reassures.

"You're crazy." Andrea's voice ventures into the territory of shaky skepticism.

With those final words of doubt, Rick grabs Wōden setting the mongoose on the ground with some difficulty as the dæmon tries to cling to him.

The mongoose seems panicked, bracing his paws against Rick's knees as he tries to plead with the deputy, all watery eyes and cracking voice. It all falls on deaf ears and it's frankly hard as hell to watch.

Ignoring the mongoose as if he'd never been there, Rick stands to his full height grabbing up the ax and swinging it down into the geek's stomach until it's a mince meat of guts and viscera.

The whole time Wōden sits besides Huythaca, the hairless dog keeps shooting the mongoose sympathetic glances but the smaller dæmon just keeps his eyes forward, locked onto every movement Rick makes as if waiting for the deputy to retract his words.

Throughout the whole process of being smeared with rotten blood and draped with desiccated organs Soo-min clings to the back of Glenn's neck.

She sits safe beneath the high collar of the trench coat and she sits even safer under the thin fabric of his baseball shirt. Her fear is palpable but she makes no noise, no indication that she's even alive, going so far as to dampen their connection until all Glenn senses are the barest flavors of panic like an aftertaste in his mind and he wonders if that's what it's like for Rick all the time.

It's depressing as hell to think about and even more depressing to watch as Rick doesn't even look back at his dæmon, not even when he walks through the door.

The first time they walk through said door it's as if the world holds its breath with them, a quiet hush like the eye of a hurricane falls over them.

Then the wind picks up in to a flurry as the metaphorical eye wall slams into them and geeks turn towards them. All dead eyes and wheezing breaths as they move closer to inspect the new sounds and movement.

Glenn drops into a shamble, his head tilted and dragging his feet as the geeks he passes sniff at him and gnash their teeth with quiet clicks.

He's ignored and the elation makes his heart rate soar so high he's afraid the undead will hear it.

They keep moving, always slow going but even in the thick of the herd they're left alone.

Glenn follows close behind Rick, step for step on his heels and he really has to keep reminding himself that the man isn't one of the undead. Because it's too damn easy to mistake him. Especially when his dæmon is nowhere in sight and he mimics that lifeless shamble effortlessly, like the distance doesn't even phase him.

It makes Soo-min burn like hot coals against his neck.

And when that ominous warning of thunder catches up to them in the form of a full blown rain storm they break into a sprint, shedding their layers as they hop the fence.

They make it, as miraculous and impossible as it is; they goddamn made it and Glenn can't help the full blown smile on his face.

Careening down the highway in a bright red sports car, Glenn can't help whooping in elation.

He doesn't know if Rick managed to get back to the department store with the construction van, he damn well hopes and believes, especially since he'd done a bang up job during the geeks away.

That doesn't matter right now, all that matters is that him and Soo-min are alive.

He doesn't give a shit about the car alarm still blaring or the urge to slow down and wait for the others, all the worry in his veins is eaten away by sheer joy, the taste of life and freedom. His dæmon perches on the steering wheel as she watches the world fly past in a dizzying array of colors, shouting in delight as she urges him to drive faster and faster.

Soon enough, they're going over a hundred on the empty highway and Glenn's thoughts couldn't be further from the Dixon still chained to the roof or the deputy with his severed dæmon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rick: Wōden (indian grey mongoose) 
> 
> Glenn: Soo-min (patagonian bumblebee)
> 
> Morales: Huythaca (peruvian hairless dog)
> 
> T-Dog: Tsīrona (coatimundi)
> 
> Jacqui: Indra (budgerigar/parakeet) 
> 
> Andrea: Serapion (common house cat/tabby)
> 
> Merle: Scout (fisher cat, large size, about 30lbs.)
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter 4 Guide (with cute picture of Soo-min and Glenn done by HelixaHallwood so don't miss out on that!) 
> 
> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1nLMbepRLSYVzFeL7GuOAiEZaksOOoBR_N3dkxpZDptk/edit?usp=drivesdk


	5. Goodbye.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fold out your hands,  
> Give me a sign,  
> Hold down your lies,  
> Lay down next to me,  
> Don't listen when I scream,  
> Bury your thoughts (doubts) and fall asleep.  
> Find out... I was just a bad dream.  
> Let the bed sheet,  
> Soak up my tears,  
> And watch the only way out disappear.  
> Don't tell me why,  
> Kiss me goodbye."  
> -Goodbye, Apparat(Soap&Skin)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all like shitty reunions and incoherent dream sequences, cause both are in here.

"Come meet everyone." Morales' parting words hang in the air like the first drops of morning dew on the grass.

Wōden can see and feel the little smile that stretches Rick's lips, like a phantom it tugs at his own far less human ones.

It's a dead thing, as lively as the reassuring nod that the man gives Morales as the door is left open, an invitation, unwanted and unasked for.

Wōden peers up at Rick. As always, the man seems absent of dust, the gold particles seeming to elude the man's very presence, only a smattering of sparkles seem to rest on his uniform but Wōden knows even those will disappear.

It's just another thing that sets them apart.

Rick's eyes are downcast and a lachrymose fog seems to settle about his head, a dark invisible cloud that threatens to spill over.

"We can leave." Wōden's voice is soft; softer than the dæmon means for it to fall from his lips.

The mongoose hops up on the dash, nails clicking against the plastic noisily for the briefest of seconds before all that's heard is the faintest whisper of fur as he sits back on his haunches, peering up and over the steering wheel. "We can keep lookin', Rick. We don't gotta stay here."

He's trying to be supportive, he's trying to fan that flame of hope as it stutters dangerously low in his chest. He doesn't expect Rick to snuff it out like fingers to a match.

"And where do you suggest we go? Back to Atlanta?" Rick's gaze is cold, a blue fire in those irises. "Out there?" He raises an angry palm to gesture out the window. "We don't stand a goddamn chance."

His shoulders drop but his tone stays hard, all sharp edges and cold corners. "Not alone, not without guns- not against somethin' like that."

Rick deflates, letting his forehead fall against the steering wheel. "It's time to face the truth, Wōden. They're dead and we gotta accept that. We gotta move on."

It makes Wōden bristle. Everything from the lack of fight down to the way Rick says his name, like it's still a foreign word on the man's lips.

"You really feel that fuckin' way?" Wōden tucks his head down closer to his paws, hackles rising. "Fine, you don't belong here anyways."

Rick's fingers on the wheel don't even twitch but something cracks Wōden's insides, like the great rainbow knife in the intercision chambers of old falling between them; cutting and tearing, rending the very dust from the air.

If it were a physical blow to the chest it would've hurt less. God it stings something fierce in Wōden's insides and he can't help the little growl that leaves his chest as he crouches low.

His lips pull back to flash sharp little teeth and he can feel his muzzle crinkle. "It's easy for you to turn away, but I'm not givin' up."

The dæmon spits the words with more venom than he intends but the regret is nothing more than a whisper as Rick finally sits back up, skull thumping against the headrest as he looks out the window.

Resignation swims in every fiber of Rick's corneas. It's disgusting, how detached he looks, how detached he feels and Wōden wants nothing more than to make the man feel every ounce of what he does, to break through that dam between them until they're both forced to their knees.

A mess of dust and dæmon and man, lost in the throes of grief and madness and doubt; together. Instead it's like two magnets of the same poles forced closer and closer.

"This ain't givin' up."

It's the only words Rick imparts before he's stepping out of the van.

With a loud chuff, Wōden trails behind Rick, looking at the ground rather than the man's heels a few yards ahead.

He's focused on the thoughts that buzz in his head like a hive between his ears. He's focused on the shift of gravel under his paws, the loud clack of rock on rock and the scraping hiss of his nails when he feels Rick's thoughts light up like a Christmas tree.

Intruding on his own like the bright, blinding beam of a search light that demands attention.

Looking up, Wōden narrowly avoids a boot to the spine as Rick stumbles backwards, recoiling physically at whatever he sees, a hand pressed to the man's lips in utter disbelief.

Mouth agape Wōden rears up on his hind legs to give Rick a piece of his mind when a familiar russet catches his eye.

He falls to all fours and steps back, curling in on himself at the same time he raises a paw to lunge forward. A keening whine presses out of his muzzle as he watches Narreh race towards him in that odd little hopping run the darwinius always does.

That familiar ringed tail trailing behind Narreh like a flag as he hesitates just a few steps in front of Wōden.

"You're alive." Narreh moves forward, one last little hop bringing him nose to nose with the mongoose.

Raising a hand, Narreh reaches for Wōden but something seems to stay the darwinius' reach, making the dæmon draw the appendage back to his chest and grasp at his own fur with blunt nails and indecisive fingers.

Narreh's eyes fall to the left, ears pitching downwards as his nostrils flare.

Unphased, Wōden dives forward with a joyful cry doing his best to draw Narreh closer, paws reaching and grasping and failing where human hands would do much better.

But it doesn't matter, not when Narreh's reluctant to return the embrace and every part of the darwinius is a rigid line against Wōden's softness.

Something is wrong.

Drawing back he thinks for one stomach dropping heartbeat that Carl's dead, that Bragi's followed suit, that the anxiety thrumming though Narreh is simply his inability to voice the words; to break the news, to say what must be said.

Instead, there are no tears moistening the darwinius' eyes and clear as day just yards past where Narreh stands, Wōden sees little Bragi in the shape of a mouse tucked in to the juncture where the top of Carl's head meets Rick's shoulder.

Relief floods Wōden like the great cresting of a rogue wave, massive and powerful it floods through him but flees his limbs just as fast when his eyes meet Narreh's once more.

Wōden backpedals in horror at what he sees, so blinded by the miracle of Narreh's presence he was unable to see the obvious.

There's a clear halo of dust that surrounds the darwinius but feels and pulses with all the fiery energy of Cailleach.

It's more than just the two having brushed against each other, or perhaps cuddled in their sleep, it's more than the connection between family members or best friends.

It permeates Narreh's very being, wiping all traces of Wōden from his russet fur until even the darwinius' whiskers glimmer with the light of another, like the brightest stars hung in a blood red sky.

It is the brash, bold nature of Rusakov Particles meeting in a passionate display that casts bright burning beacons in the eyes of any dæmon that bears witness. It's aftermath ignites the air like the open core of a burning reactor ionizing every atom it touches.

It's impossible to miss.

Glancing towards Cailleach, Wōden sees the dog has managed to keep her fur practically absent while Narreh still glows like a lighthouse in a stormy bay.

They are two souls now connected on a sacred intimate level, their atoms having mingled and the very molecules of the world itself conjoined with them but one still chooses to hide it, like it's something shameful, like it's a lie.

And it is, Wōden thinks darkly, eyes narrowing as he watches Cailleach sit calmly at Shane's heels. Her tail isn't even wagging, in fact she makes a convincing statue for how little she moves compared to her other half who seems to vibrate in place, watching Rick and entirely unable to decide between joining the reunion or staying put.

A smile stretches Shane's face, all disbelief and joy that leaves it shaky and faltering, the man's shotgun still slung across his shoulders as he drums nervous fingers against the metal.

"You-" Wōden whips his gaze back to Narreh so fast he swears his vision doubles for a dizzying heartbeat.

Narreh reaches for Wōden once more, not quite meeting the mongoose's eyes but desperation bleeds in every chord of his voice. "We thought you were dead. _He_ said you were dead."

Wōden bares his teeth, every particle of dust seeming to riot from his whiskers to his tail tip.

"I was there in the hospital wasn't I?" He spits, losing his tentative grasp on his temper while betrayal still bites at him like a thousand ants.  
"We weren't dead."

Narreh flinches back, yellow eyes widening when he begins to understand how truly upset the mongoose before him is.

Shaking his head, Wōden hisses and steps forward, a single paw planted on the ground with a stomp that sends the loose gravel clattering away. "We _ain't_ _dead_."

Narreh tucks his palm back into his gold tainted fur as his owl large eyes fall to the ground. His voice is barely above a whisper, the smooth, soothing notes of his voice hopping and skipping with distress."They didn't see you Wōden. You weren't _there_."

"That's impossible… We woke up." Wōden falls back on his haunches, a waver to his voice that belies the harshness that once resided there. Unconsciously, the mongoose draws up a paw to his own chest, pressing it there he feels nothing but the pinpricks of his own claws.

Not even a speck or a single pitiful shimmer of Narreh's warmth remains, it's dull and dead inside the cavity.

"He's lying." Wōden's voice cracks but he pushes on, spurred by the emptiness. "They saw me and they're _lying_."

Narreh edges closer to the mongoose, his voice softer around the edges and something like pity sneaks it's way in, quiet and swift. "You and I both know they'd never do that."

Wōden's breath quickens and he presses harder, nails catching fur and finally skin until dust wells to the surface, iridescent beads against dark keratin.

Still he feels nothing. None of the warm fuzziness in his chest that could only be compared to dipping one's paw in a hot bath. A shiver racing down the spine and a constant whisper of love that echoes dully but never falters.

Now, it's blank. So utterly blank that he isn't sure it ever existed in the first place.

Wōden's world spins and collapses, like a dying star it implodes and sucks everything in the next second. A black hole where nothing, not even his despair, can escape. It leaves a numbness in its wake that's overshadowed oh so cruelly by Rick's own elation.

Forced into a frozen stare Wōden watches as Narreh looks back towards Shane and then his eyes slant to Lori. "I don't think they love each other."

Wōden wants to bare his teeth, fight this tooth and claw, to rip into that crooked smile on Cailleach's muzzle. Instead he's held fast, an invisible hand pressing him against the ground until he can't even turn away.

"But I _love_ _her_ , Wōden." Narreh stresses, eyes finally landing on Cailleach, adamantly refusing to meet the mongoose's. "Every atom of me. And I shouldn't, I know it's wrong- but I can't stop."

_Every atom of me._

Wōden remembers when he'd said the words to Narreh, when Cailleach had first said them to him.

This is wrong, Wōden chants, over and over and over. It's a bad dream, a goddamn nightmare, it has to be. It has to be, please, wake up, just wake up.

God, Wōden knows Cailleach's love is a lie, but he lacks the conviction to break the darwinius' heart; not when his own is already fucking shattered.

Wōden knows Cailleach loves him, she loved him like how a soulmate does; how Narreh once did. He knows it like the backs of his paws and the tip of his tail, it's just something that is and always was.

She'd confessed it once to him, in a time when they hadn't yet settled and they'd been two unruly dæmons wrestling in the backyard while Shane and Rick sat on the back stoop sipping lemonade and talking about their futures in the way that young teens do.

He remembers the sweet smell of the grass, freshly cut and staining his fur as they rolled over and over finally coming to a stop in a tangle of limbs at the foot of an oak tree.

And he remembers Cailleach curling around him as a hush fell over the summer air, the cicadas themselves seeming to quiet as dust rained from the heavens until it settled in every part of them and their forms changed for the very last time.

With laughter on their lips and smiles in their eyes Cailleach whispered in Wōden's ears, a quiet intimate confession that would ring in the mongoose's mind for all time. A sweet poison, so delicate and beautiful but dangerous and deadly. It would ruin them.

And she spoke softly, sweet words that said Shane didn't love Rick the way he loved girls. He loved the other boy like how the moon loves the stars and how the sycamore loves the sun. Like how the sea loves the shore and the two never part, one as much apart of the other.

And Cailleach said she loved him, with every fiber of her being, every speck of dust and _every atom._

And of course, Wōden loved her back. He loved her like the willow loves the gentle breeze and the bees love the flowers, Wōden loved her like a warm summer day but he knew Rick never could.

So he lied and she smiled, a grin stretching her canine mouth as she leaned down to lick a stripe across Wōden's forehead that made him laugh away the guilt.

She said she'd love him still, no matter what that looked like or meant to the mongoose.

And there they went from best friends in childhood to cold shoulders in adulthood, all because Wōden went and fell in love with another dæmon.

What irony it must be that Narreh had gone and found comfort in the bigger dæmon, an empty one-sided comfort, a manipulation, a farce, but if it _felt real_ \- who was he to stop it?

Wōden's eyes find Cailleach's once more, fiery orange meeting dull silver, and she seems to quirk a brow in challenge but a sadness lies there, barely concealed in the tilt of her ears.

It reminds him of when she'd sat at Shane's heels, best man and best dæmon alike at Rick's wedding with a sadness in their eyes that belied the smiles and the pride they forced on their faces.

He remembers crouching low on Rick's shoulders, trying to tune out the disapproving sneers and not so subtle looks from Lori's relatives in the pews, just tying to avoid Cailleach's eyes, and all of it only served to compound his nervousness.

They whispered and debated about how long the marriage would last at the reception, about how he was the wrong kind of dæmon.

And here Narreh stands testament to that doubt, a marriage failed like the self fulfilling prophecy it was doomed to be from the moment they met.

Deflating, Wōden's fur falls flat and his back drops its arch, tail thumping to the ground. "It's okay."

Little tears moisten the corners of his eyes as he repeats himself in a forlorn mantra. "It's okay."

"No it isn't." Narreh hops forward to cup Wōdens slender face in his little palms, pressing his forehead to the mongoose's.

"We both know it ain't right-" Narreh runs his hands through the fur at Wōdens neck, his little fingers grasping at the mongoose's coat to pull him into his chest. "And I wish I could take it back."

"Why doesn't it _feel_ like it?" Wōden asks, a hollow murmur into Narreh's fur.

"I don't know." The darwinius whispers with gentle strokes over Wōden's ears and down his cheeks. "I don't know."

 

 

 

The sun is low in the sky by the time Rick's changed his clothes for something that smells far less like rot and sweat. He wishes the shoes were a bit bigger but he'll have to settle for some blisters and cramped toes if he ever wants his boots to smell like anything except guts and gore far past its expiration date.

He's walking through the outcrop of tents towards the simmering coals in the distance, it's smoke barely trails into the air, still giving warmth but not noticeable from a distance for a very good reason.

Looking around he realizes that the camp is rather unsecure, in fact as he walks further in it's embarrassingly so. A walker could just stumble right into the throng of tents with no warning, there's no alarm system in sight besides a lone person standing on the RV's roof in the distance.

Watching the man up there all slumped in an old folding chair, a rifle slung across his lap as he seems to practically nod off, isn't exactly comforting.

A red handed tamarin perched on the chair's arm seems more content with studying their nails rather than looking out at the horizon.

Shaking his head, he thinks about saying something to Shane, about maybe having some kind of perimeter but around the camp, really anything that will signal them when the lookout fails.

And judging by the state of their current lookout, they'd be needing it.

A shiver courses through his body then, no breeze or chill accompanying it but still he wraps the flannel shirt around himself tighter.

At first he thinks it's the cold of the evening creeping in but as he watches the sun slowly creep beyond the horizon, casting blood red hues across the sky, he realizes that Wōden isn't here. It's not like all the dæmons miraculously disappeared either because that monkey is still up on the RV and a woman with her gazelle walk by, both flashing him a weary look.

He puts on his best smile and gives her a wave but this only seems to make her walk faster, a hand now at her dæmon's neck as she coaxes them along.

Sighing, Rick lets his head drop.

It was easy to forget, when the constant churning feeling in his stomach and the burn in his chest was so small. It's not like the razor sharp slide of a dagger across his ribs that he felt back in Atlanta as he'd walked further and further from Wōden. That was manageable but this was simply forgettable, a goddamn whisper in comparison.

It's too easy to dismiss the absence of his little dæmon and that's going to be a problem. With a deepening frown he racks his brain and looks about, trying to remember when he'd last seen the mongoose.

Who the hell loses their dæmon, he thinks, it seemed like something that should be impossible to do but here he stands as living proof; a grown ass adult who lost track of their own soul.

Concentrating and feeling a bit foolish, Rick closes his eyes, trying to pinpoint Wōden and desperately hoping no one's decided to watch him stand there like an idiot.

It seems to work because a feeling of despair and betrayal starts to gnaw at his heart like a baby woodpecker. At first he confuses it for his own anxieties but the flavor is different and distinctly not his own, it forms in his mind's eye like an invisible stream, all gold and faltering. A weak little thing that leads him closer to the RV and closer to the murmur of voices.

The closer he gets, the more it feels like a breath of fresh air he didn't realize he desperately needed.

Finding the mongoose curled up by himself near one of the fires, Rick crouches down to comfort him.

An angry huff has him looking up though. He notices that only a few people seem to sit around the nearby fire pit, a family he thinks, except the mother and daughter sit completely opposite a rather disgruntled looking father.

Casting a weary eye towards the unhappy looking fellow, Rick notices the man's eyes glint in the orange light, flashing like a predator in the night as his cuckoo dæmon tilts her head and gives a call, an eerily quiet coo-coo that reflects her namesake as she clacks her beak loudly.

He's so caught up in studying the man and his dæmon trying to discern what about them is so threatening, so off-putting that the man's very frown spells danger and the subtle curl of his lip speaks of rage that Rick doesn't realize he's staring.

He watches the man's knuckles turn white as he clenches the arm of his chair and the woman seems to lean away, a protective arm wrapped about her daughter's shoulders as she gives Rick a weary look.

The hornbill on her shoulder is as ragged as they come, his bright beak faded to grey and the fluff of downy peeks through missing cover feathers. The big bird seems to lean down and preen a few strands of the little girl's hair, a fitful nervous gesture.

 

"They're together." Wōden's voice interrupts his staring and thankfully cuts the tension with a nearly audible twang.

"What?" He focuses on the mongoose now, voice low as if trying not to disturb the family more than he already has. That man's whole demeanor has left a bad taste in Rick's mouth and he can't help keeping an eye on him from his peripherals.

"Narreh and Cailleach." Wōden murmurs, curling in on himself tighter. "Shane and Lori've been sleepin' together."

"Oh…" Rick knows he should feel something besides indifference. He should be angry, indignant, outraged, hell even disappointed would do, really anything besides sheer nonchalance and an overwhelming sense that none of it matters if it isn't real.

"Oh-- _really_?" Wōden gets to his paws, grizzled fur rippling with hues of yellow and orange as he bristles, tossing his head with a growl that dissolves into a scoff.

"You find out your best friend and your wife are fuckin' and that's all you have to say?"

Rick opens his mouth and raises a hand, not sure what he intends to do or say but the mongoose continues irregardless, vitriol in his voice as he starts to pace in a tight circle.

"You're so damn non-confrontational, like a brick fuckin' wall- just takin' punches and barely dishin' em out. Why the fuck do ya even have a dæmon like me if you're so good at rollin' over?"

Wōden stops his pacing in favor of crouching low, head dropped and tail stiff behind him as if he's facing down a venomous snake, waiting for it to strike so he can dodge and land the killing blow. "No wonder Lori stopped lovin' you."

Rick recoils, and he tries to reason that the little mongoose just wants to feel something, anything but that hollow, dark yawning pit that threatens to not only swallow up Wōden but spill over and engulf Rick too.

For a good while there's only the empty air that stretches between them.

A coldness creeps its little tendrils across Rick's sternum but he's fine and Wōden's just heartbroken. It's fine. Everyone's okay.

He doesn't look down at the mongoose, keeping his face down and eyes carefully on a patch of dead grass beside him. " _They're alive,_ Wōden. Ain't that enough?"

"It's not… It's really not." Wōden breaths.

He doesn't have to say it but Rick can hear his thoughts, feel them like they're his own because Wōden does nothing to hide them. All they scream is imposter, a seething hate and blame that cascades across Rick's shoulders like the physical whip of a lash.

"Hey, it's Rick isn't it?" A fatherly voice that sounds a lot like the old snowbirds he'd used to pull over for driving dangerously slow in the left lane sounds behind him.

Rick stands, Wōden settling down at his feet to give the appearance of everything being fine but he's careful to stay on the ground and he's definitely not letting a single strand of fur touch any part of Rick's boots.

"Dale-" The man holds out a hand, using the other to gesture to the fat bearded dragon on his shoulder, "And this old girl is Pasithea."

The lizard does little more than yawn but her eyes are an intelligent brown with a gaze that'd give a Catholic nun a run for her money.

"Rick and um, Wōden." He gestures awkwardly to Wōden who gives a snort at Rick's slight stumble.

Shaking Dale's hand, he curses himself for sounding like a high schooler on the first day of class introductions.

"Come on, son. We've got plenty of room around the fire, if you can even call it that, and I think we're all dying to know just what the hell happened to you." Dale claps a hand on Rick's shoulder, leading him towards another fire a few yards away where quite a few people are huddled, many of them familiar faces.

He recognizes the people from the rooftop, Glenn giving him a little wave from his seat on a cooler. Rick doesn't see Soo-min but he assumes the large bumblebee is up on the kid's baseball hat.

Shane and his dog dæmon watch from the opposite side of the flames, a calm observance as Rick sits cross-legged beside Lori.

As he sits, he makes sure that his side presses against Lori but nothing more beyond elbows brushing and knees touching. It's not a clear cut space as to draw attention but it's just enough to imply, to send a clear message; it's enough to not be overwhelming.

Lori doesn't react beyond reaching out to grab his hand, probably to trace a thumb over his knuckles maybe even lace their fingers together. He can't help the flinch, the not so subtle escape from the tender gesture.

Thankfully Carl choses that moment to practically hops into his arms, effectively cutting off Lori's efforts and blocking Rick's view of her downtrodden expression.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Lori and Shane exchange a look, although her's seems to be a more immediate threat of death glare and Shane's is openly guilty if not bordering anxious with how his brows dip.

Laughing, Rick ruffles Carl's hair and pulls his son in close, just taking in the fact that he's alive, that he's real even if everything else feels like some cruel facsimile; at least this is real.

Wōden sulks at his feet, closer to the smoldering coals than he is to Rick or Carl but he catches a hint of contentment from the mongoose, a whisper like the echoes of songbirds in the winter.

They sit like that for a long while, Rick's legs starting to fall asleep but it doesn't matter, he wouldn't move for the world.

Dale seems rather interested in his story, it doesn't seem particularly nosy or malicious in fact the older man seems purely fueled by curiosity and it feeds the hungry flames of everyone's own until it's a round robin of questions.

Shane and Lori stay silent.

He tells them but only what they need to hear, what they want to hear. There's little sense in trying to justify what he really thinks happened to him, it sounds fucking crazy anyways and he really doesn't want to give these people another thing to checkmark on their little lunatic score sheets.

"I felt like I'd been ripped out of my life and... Put somewhere else." It's as close to the truth as he's willing to get.

After he falls silent, the conversation picks back up, shifting to Merle's fate and a dreaded conversation about what to tell his brother.

Rick's just glad the focus is no longer on him.

"Have we given any thought to Daryl Dixon? He won't be happy to hear his brother was left behind." Dale asks, looking around the circle and when no one speaks up his eyebrows disappear beyond the brim of his hat. "We are going to tell him, right?"

 _Of course he's got a brother. Lucky us._ Wōden thinks with all the sour energy of someone who'd ever had the joy of meeting a Dixon. _We could always lie._

Rick frowns, he can't help agreeing with the mongoose even though his humanity says that'd be unusually cruel. It seems highly unlikely this _Daryl_ is in any way shape or form a better person than his brother, if everyone's reactions are anything to go by.

"We tell him the truth." Tsīrona's voice is but a whisper as she gives a nod and a sniff, nudging her long snout into T-Dog's nod as if to encourage him.

"It's my fault, I dropped the key." T-Dog looks down at his hands before glancing up with a hardness in his eyes, as if he'd agreed to be shot in the kneecap not simply tell someone about the fate of a relative. "If it's anyone, it's gonna be us."

Rick doesn't like that one bit, it shouldn't be like offering one's self to the sacrificial slaughter all because they made a mistake.

If anyone deserves to get a beating or end up dead because of Merle's brother Rick would rather it be himself, at least he can trust in his own ability to fight and restrain someone.

"But, I cuffed him. So it's mine." Rick reasons, remembering Scout and he wonders if Daryl's daemon is anything like his brothers. If so they're probably going to need someone to restrain them, especially god forbid if it was a wolf, and judging by everyone's general wariness it very well might be.

That's a problem for tomorrow and a lull in the conversation leaves the soft crackling of embers to take over the quiet night.

Carl leans back in Rick's arms, falling asleep with Bragi in the shape of a rabbit curled up in the crook of Rick's elbow, the soft fur brushing his skin just as the thoughts of warmth, and safety and love radiate from her in a constant stream.

He recalls how Scout had felt in his hands, so violent like a thousand angry yellow jackets stinging his fingers, promises of death and pain lancing up his arm and crashing into his chest with the torrent violence of a whipping tornado.

It was almost too overwhelming and he'd nearly dropped the fisher cat if not for his instincts to ignore the pain in favor of keeping his hold.

"I don't mean to bring race into this." Glenn clears his throat, raising an open palm with a little half shrug. "But I think it'd sound a lot better comin' from a white guy."

This seems to earn some nods around the fire but T-Dog is insistent, claiming that it's his duty to tell the truth, to own up to it.

"We could lie." Andrea's little sister speaks up, the large leaf insect on her shoulder giving a little nod in the low light.

"Or just tell the truth." Serapion bites back, Andrea running a hand down her dæmon's back as she speaks up. "Merle was out of control. If it's anyone's fault, it's Merle's."

"And that's what we tell him? You can't be serious?" Dale sputters. "Somehow I don't see rational discussion coming from that, do you?''

"We stopped long enough to chain that door." T-Dog adds, his coatimundi nodding as if to back the man up. "That staircase was narrow. Not a lotta geeks could squeeze against the door- not enough to break that chain. Not that padlock."

"He's still up there." Tsīrona continues, her voice still soft, a subtle scratchiness to it. "Handcuffed on that roof."

"That's on us." T-Dog finishes, looking around the gathered party with his chin tilted up, as if to say that's that.

The distinct crack of a log falling on a fire rends the air. All eyes snap to the sound, seeing hot ash and orange embers kicked drifting up the hot column of smoke as the angry man from earlier sits back in his seat with a huff.

A scowl darkens Shane's face, an echo of it shadowing Cailleach's own as the man gets to his feet, his dæmon staying seated but alert.

"Hey Ed, you wanna rethink that log?"

"It's cold, man." Ed replies, a poisonous drawl to his voice that speaks volumes to how much he respects Shane's authority.

"That don't change the rules." Cailleach snaps, voice low as not to carry but there's a growl in her words, a rumble from her chest that makes Rick tense up, Wōden doing the same.

Shane puts a hand on her neck, steadying the big dæmon. "We keep our fires low, just embers so we can't be seen from a distance."

"I said it's cold. Mind your own business for once." Ed spits, voice a bit louder and a subtle curl to his lip. His cuckoo dæmon's neck feathers raise but her head stays smooth, a low hiss like a tiny chainsaw leaving her beak.

Cailleach gets to her paws then, a massive hulking silhouette that looks for all the world like a small dire wolf in the light of the embers.

She simply takes one step forward, a lowering of her head and a flashing of her teeth is all it seems to take for the cuckoo dæmon to go thin in fear, ducking closer to Ed's neck.

"Fine, pull the damn log out." Ed orders, an aggravated hand thrust towards the woman opposite him.

The woman hesitates, eyes flickering to the log that's bark is beginning to curl and turn white in the fire pit. The hornbill resting on her knee cap turns his head, giving a minute shake of his bill as he opens and shuts it once.

"Go on!" Ed shouts and everyone seems to flinch as a collective, pity thick in the air as they watch the woman shoot to her feet, startling her dæmon into a clumsy flight.

She pulls the log from the fire, tossing it to the dirt in one fluid motion as her ragged dæmon flicks his wings in frustration behind her.

It's a sad fucking sight but it doesn't instill pity in Rick as much as it instills rage, violent images of punching the vile man straight in the nose flash through his mind accompined by the desire to bite and scratch and rip him to shreds with tooth and claw.

He realizes they're Wōden's thoughts, animalistic little things that depart from his sentience and delve into the instincts of his settled form. It's unsettling as it is disorienting.

Rick watches as Shane sits back down with a huff, shaking his head as Cailleach sneers, lips curling and shaking her head with a disgusted whisper. "Dickhead."

 

 

Rick lays on the makeshift bed, it's just a few layers of sleeping bag serving as a mattress. Curled up on his side, he stares at the grey of the tent, the little imperfections in the nylon weave, the condensation gathering on it from the temperature difference.

Wōden's already drifting to sleep, too tired it seems to care about the fact that he's laid out along Rick's stomach, tucked into the curve of his body as if he belongs there, as if that's how they've slept every night for years and they probably have for all he knows.

He can practically hear Lori's thoughts like a buzz at his back, refusing to turn over and face her, he knows the questions she'll ask, the contempt and the confusion he'll find there. The claims that he's changed, that he's different, that he's not the same and she's right.

How can she still love the ghost of what he's _meant_ to be?

Back to back, that's how they settle down to sleep, not dissimilar to how they'd end up most nights back before the apocalypse.

He doesn't hate her, how can he, but love certainly isn't something that's still fostered in his heart.

It's why he refused the wedding ring when she'd offered it, simply curling her fingers back over the gold band with a decided no, not right now. Something akin to shock and relief washed over her features before suspicion settled in to the furrow of her brow, a slight narrow to her eyes as she looked over his face.

He just offered a smile, reassured her that everything's fine and gently kissed her on the forehead before turning away.

Letting his eyes fall shut, he falls into the soft rhythm of Wōden's breaths.

 

His dreams are a jumble of pictures and sounds, frightening imagery and sensations that aren't normally so vivid. He feels as if he's tumbling through space, unable to right himself as he falls until he slams into the metaphorical ground, grinding to a halt and smack dab into lucidity without knowing the beginning.

He's back in the hospital bed, waking up surrounded by nurses and family. Lori and Carl are there, Shane hovering behind them with a hand on their shoulders.

The world flashes, brilliant whites and gold's that twist into blacks with each screaming beep of the heart monitor.

Turning away from the violent pulses he frantically runs his hands down the length of the bed, no sensation registering in his fingertips but he knows what's there.

Empty air, empty sheets, and too many lingering eyes, too many whispers and too much flashing, specks of gold popping like fireworks in front of his eyes.

Wōden's gone they scream, Wōden's gone he repeats, a sick call and echo that leaves him feeling weightless and nauseous.

He grips the bars of the bed, crunching plastic under brittle fists as he reaches desperately, gold in his veins and his ears and gold dust like a cruel barrier that turns his hand away.

_Narreh and Bragi, where are they? Cailleach?_

_Wōden_ …

Shane shakes his head, pulling Lori and Carl away, two cruel talons that bleed fiery red until they're consumed in it.

Crashes like a million shipwrecks sing in his ears and their shadows threaten to swallow him as they stand in the doorway.

And they abandon him, left in a gyre of dust and whispers and doubt and the impression like a mongoose's bite in his heart. It's gone.

A cosmos spills out from his side, gunshot wound oozing the very stars, the planets, the universe until it eats up the floor, the walls, and everything in between.

Until he's alone, vacuous and empty.

He screams.

 

Jarring awake Rick bites back a shout, great heaving breaths punching out of him so fast it's a wonder he doesn't pass out from sheer lack of oxygen.

Blood pounds so loud in his ears that he can't even hear the beginnings of cicada song that signal the coming of dawn. Instead he sits there, hunching over himself as he tries to collect his thoughts.

The nightmare flees his mind so fast he can't even remember why he'd been so afraid in the first place, instead it's a great stretch of blackness like staring into an abyss and being frightened by the unkown.

Calming own, he looks around noticing that Lori and Carl are still sound asleep, their dæmons equally unconscious.

Wōden crawls into his lap then, and it has that fear sparking in his mind like a choking furnace suddenly brought roaring to life. His dæmon's eyes are glassy, cheeks moist with tears and a choked sound leaves him when he opens his mouth.

There is no hesitation this time, no doubts or reservations as Rick scoops the mongoose into his arms. Burying his face in Wōden's coarse fur, Rick hunches in on himself like a lost child hugging their favorite toy.

 _No_ , he thinks, he's like a lost man finding his dæmon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rick: Wōden (Indian grey mongoose)
> 
> Carl: Bragi (harvest mouse, cotton tail rabbit, unsettled)
> 
> Lori: Narreh (darwinius masillae)
> 
> Shane: Cailleach (american alsatian dog)
> 
> Dale: Pasithea (bearded dragon)
> 
> T-Dog: Tsīrona (coatimundi)
> 
> Andrea: Serapion (common house cat, tabby)
> 
> Amy: (unmentioned) (leaf insect, largest species) 
> 
> Glenn: Soo-min (patagonian bumblebee)
> 
> Carol: Pavonius (red knobbed hornbill)
> 
> Sophia: (unmentioned)
> 
> Chapter 5 Guide (if you're wondering what Sophia's and Amy's dæmons are named they're in here, they're not a spoiler or anything I just didn't include them in this chapter)
> 
> https://docs.google.com/document/d/18YDfObxgAz0-2DfWKgnd6EoLZfQCHkpQWW7YIklyNXs/edit?usp=drivesdk


	6. Ready Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You saw through me,  
> All this time.  
> I'd forgotten,  
> People are kind.
> 
> I was hurting,  
> And you knew.  
> So you showed me,  
> What to do.
> 
> You said, 'I will listen,  
> Tell it all.  
> When you're finished,  
> We'll talk more.' " -Ready Now, dodie
> 
> "You get separated, somebody's gone  
> And I don't know how this is wrong  
> And I'm so frustrated, falling behind  
> You were a friend of mine." -Masterpiece Theatre III, Marianas Trench

It's so early that the fog hasn't dissipated and what little light there is comes from the weak halo that doesn't quite crest the horizon.

It's chilly, and the cold air makes Rick's cheeks burn hotter, still damp and tearstained.

Wōden's still held against his chest and Rick rubs the heel of his palm against his eyes. Swiping away the leftover tears and if he could, he'd wipe away the redness he knows lingers there.

After crying like he hasn't since he was a child, he feels lighter, some invisible weight lifted from his shoulders. The burden still exists but it's shared between him and Wōden now, the little mongoose having cried right alongside him.

It seems the whole camp is still sound asleep, not a soul stirring, not even the early chirps and trills of birds fill the air yet. The cicada song itself is quiet, almost as quiet as the lingering mist that swirls in the air.

As they walk it seems the only person moving is the lookout on top of the RV, this time a man with a navy cap on his head, sporting a mechanics jumpsuit and a white fantail dove on his shoulder.

As they pass the vehicle, the man gives them a wave but his face stays carefully neutral, an odd sadness captured in the sag of his shoulders.

Rick supposes that such a sadness is something to be expected, that there's a poetic irony to it all that seems to elude him but persists nonetheless.

"Where are we goin'?" Wōden speaks up, finally clambering out of Rick's arms, the mongoose's warmth lingering for a few heartbeats and just as it fades it spreads once more along his neck and his collarbone, a sensation across his left shoulder that screams, this is where I belong.

"I think we're overdue a conversation." Rick answers, an uncharacteristic softness to his voice.

Wōden gives a little sound in affirmation, settling down so he's draped like a scarf, with his paws dangling down. He doesn't dig his claws in, doesn't grip Rick's shirt, it's as if his dæmom realizes he won't be thrown off.

There will be no angry shrug to toss him off balance or a hand to swipe at him, there's a trust flowing between them that wasn't there just hours ago something blossoming in the wake of what had been uprooted so abruptly.

It's a fragile thing, delicate like the first buds on an apple tree or the chrysalis of a caterpillar in the dead of spring.

Subject to the passage of time and change, it will grow as all things do and it will wither and weather, wane and wax but true strength isn't gifted in a day.

And so they talk, not outloud but in that space that exists between them. They talk about the past, the present and the future. Of separate worlds and places, of possibilities and things to come, intimate worries and hopes that can only be confided in one's own soul.

Rick can tell it makes Wōden feel better, easier and lighter, that dread being left behind with each step he takes.

He knows it in the phantom tug at his lips, a tightness at the corners that pulls them up into the hint of a smile. A crinkle at the corners of his eyes that reflects the twinkle in Wōden's and tingles with a fierce energy beneath his skin, a rumble in his chest like silent laughter.

There's still a distinct distance to it all, as if it's impossible to draw any closer that which makes up his dæmon's intangible presence.

Still things slot in to place, not unlike a puzzle piece that just barely fits. It's as if someone's taken a file to it and made it so, perhaps they were never meant to go together but now they are forced into place and made to adapt, to accommodate the obvious gaps and the strain.

"Do you think they'll make it?" Wōden asks out loud as Rick walks the winding path to the quarry.

Frowning to himself, he shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at the ground.

It'd crossed his mind more than once, in everyone he met and in every dæmon he saw. Morgan and Duane were the first people he'd met, the first who helped him understand this world a bit better, they saved him from an otherwise uncertain fate where he might've just eaten a bullet in his own home.

That walkie talkie miles away in the bottom of the gun bag burns a hole in his stomach, a fierce bright ball of guilt and uncertainty.

He pauses at the edge of the forest, where the trees thin and the ground slopes down.

It's impossible for him to reassure Wōden, the mongoose will know his answer before it ever passes his lips, even if it's a lie and so there's no reason to ever speak it aloud.

As the sun just starts to peek its head above the horizon, they've come to the lake at the bottom of the quarry a fine fog lingering over the calm water.

 _We're not alone_. Wōden gestures across the way with a little head toss, standing up on his paws as he shifts his weight to lean closer to the hazy figures in the distance. _It's that lady and her kid from last night._

Rick squints his eyes, he can barely make out anything but shapes in the low light. As he approaches it becomes apparent that Wōden's correct. That woman who'd been forced to pull the burning log from the fire is sitting by the lake's edge, busying herself with scrubbing clothes against an old washboard. 

Her daughter is slumped next to her, practically leaning in to her mother's side as her little pudu dæmon nods off with quiet snuffles by her hip.

The woman startles at the sound of gravel beneath Rick's boots and like a deer in headlights she pins him with a fearful gaze, only for it to harden a moment later. Her hornbill dæmon remains unphased, looking even worse for wear in the growing light of dawn as he tilts his head this way and that. 

Rick notices a chip in the bird's dull beak, just a little 'v' that cuts a lateral scar from bottom bill to the top of his casque.

Coming within a few yards of them, he swears there's some fingerprint sized bruises on the woman's upper arms, a raised lump of red and angry purple's on her collarbone.

Rick tries not to frown openly, instead he forces his lips to curve upwards while he looks out toward the horizon. "Sun's barely up, what's got you awake so early?"

He remembers Ed, that vile man who'd stared him down with the fury someone affords to a dog that's pissed on the carpet and he thinks he understands the bigger picture but he doesn't dare be so obtuse as to outright mention it.

"Oh you know chores, the sunrise… Ed's snoring." The woman gives a faltering smile holding up the clothes she's been washing. "Yours are out on the line they'll be dry soon, I just have to iron them out."

"That's very kind of you." Rick smiles, it's not as genuine as he hoped to manage but his gratitude comes much easier. "Thank you, um..."

He trails off realizing he never caught their names.

"Carol and this is my daughter, Sophia."

She doesn't introduce their dæmons, odd Rick thinks but the worry slides off his back like water to a duck. It's not something he's great at either and he supposes the social custom might just differ among everyone.

 _They're fading._ Wōden comments, worry carrying like a vibrato in the wind as he eyes their dæmons.

They do look sick, Rick notes, they look gaunt and thin, the pudu's fur is dull, lacking the luster and bright white spots of youth, instead it seems that a gun metal grey has begun to over take much of the young dæmon's color.

The hornbill is covered in fluffy grey down, looking an awful mess with a smattering of brittle black feathers across his back and chest. Most notably, his wings remain fully feathered as if he draws the line at rendering himself flightless, as if the big bird still needs to be able to escape.

Sophia gives a tired wave in greeting then, it's more of just a shy lift of her hand but beyond that she makes no verbal reply. In fact her dæmon is the one who decides to speak up.

"You think Carl and Bragi are awake this early?"

The pudu's voice is so quiet it reaches Rick's ears as little puffs of air with syllables thrown in, deciphering the whispered question takes him a few heartbeats.

And he knows it's not for him, that it's for Sophia, but he can't help answering not when they both look so miserable.

"Nah, they're still out cold. Sleepin' like the dead." Rick gives a small laugh but cringes inwardly at the poor metaphor when Wōden gives a sharp thought in disapproval.

Continuing, Rick clears his throat and shifts his feet, addressing Carol this time. "You know there's plenty of room in our tent, if you still wanna catch some shut eye I'm sure Carl and Lori won't mind."

He figures the best thing he can do is offer them a safe place to stay, to extend a hand that's not so obvious as to convey outright pity but to make it known that Carol has a place to go, people to confide in if she needs to.

"No sense bein' out here right now." Wōden speaks up, shifting on his paws when Carol levels him with a look.

Rick can see the mongoose tilt his head to look him in the eyes then, a silent question in Wōden's orange irises but all Rick can muster is the most minute shake of his head.

"We're just fine, thank you." The smile Carol gives is too wide, a plea in there somewhere.

It reminds Rick of starving dogs in back alleys who bare their teeth with weak growls, desperate to appear threatening.

With a nod he steps back, accepting the dismissal without question he takes one last look at the duo before he turns away. The hornbill eyes Rick with something he can't quite put a finger on until he's trudging back up the incline with heavy heels; he realizes that gleam in those dark eyes was desperation.

A rather shaky voice reaches Rick's ears, it's unfamiliar and masculine, something that echoes Carol's own cadence. "You saw his uniform, he can help us."

"We don't need help, Pav." The stern reply is the only answer before silence settles over the quarry once more. The only sounds that break the steady drone of cicada song are the slosh and splash of water.

He walks away, a reluctant back turned to people he knows are hurting but a promise of hope is all he can give them. Even that is enough to feel some semblance of freedom.

 

Back in the tent, he leafs through the photo album he found tucked right beside Lori's bedside, Narreh's striped tail draped across the black leather cover. Careful not to disturb her or her dæmon, he drags the album towards himself with the delicate grace of unarming a bomb.

Wōden pads close to Narreh then, pawsteps quiet on the crinkly nyon floor. For a good while he just looks down at the darwinius, paw hovering over the russet fur of his flank that rises and falls.

Silently, Rick calls Wōden away, not realizing how natural the action comes to him. Cowed, the mongoose deflates, pulling his paw away but his eyes linger until Rick makes a jerky motion with his head, gesturing for his dæmon to let them alone.

There's reluctance in every nanometer of Wōden's slender body as he turns away but an understanding like water forced around a rock in a river flows to Rick with the lazy curl of smoke.

Apologetic, Rick scoops the mongoose up, the little dæmon going limp like a ferret in his grasp as he brings Wōden closer to himself; away from Lori, and more importantly away from Narreh.

Sitting cross legged with Wōden balanced on his lap, he flips through page after page, images of things that seem familiar and things that are totally new pass before his eyes like a stop motion movie.

Milestones and achievements sifted through in seconds, a life that's been lived but it's hardly his.

Occasionally Rick spots the mongoose shoot the sleeping darwinius a mournful look, ears setting back slightly only to prick forward when Bragi tosses in her sleep, rabbit foot kicking in the air as she gives a snort that's echoed by Carl's quiet sniffle in his sleep.

 

It's a somber reminder and with a tug at his heart, he takes the picture out of his pocket.

Staring at the family portrait, with all of its little creases and weathering at the corners, he can't think of something more precious, more sacred and for a long while he just stares at his own reflection in the photograph.

With a shaky hand, he puts that picture in an empty slot, family photo tucked right along with the others where it belongs because it's not his to keep.

Wōden's thoughts tug at the threads of his mind, a somber question unformed and unvoiced as the mongoose looks up at Rick.

He closes the book, a little harder than he intends to because it causes a thump to reverberate in the air. Lori starts to stir, Narreh stretching with a yawn that mirrors her as the darwinius gives a full body shake from nose to tail tip.

And like a cowardly teenager too scared to confront his emotions he flees. His name dying on Lori's lips until it's more of a question than a response and Wōden trots behind him, looking over his shoulder so intently that the mongoose nearly falls on his face.

 

They sit at the edge of the camp, far enough to be out of people's way but close enough to hear their conversations, to pick out words and names and learn about the people who've been uprooted from their life.

Dale calls to the man up on the RV, asking for his help with the old rustbucket of a vehicle. The man calls back down, white dove bobbing her head enthusiastically as he moves to the ladder.

Morales and Huythaca chase after two children and their dæmons, playful laughter and glee in the air as the hairless dog gives an excited yip when she catches up to one of them.

Morales' wife stands nearby, beautiful green quetzal on her shoulder, the bird's long tail draped down her back as she crosses her arms and gives a fond shake of her head.

Shane walks by a while later, Cailleach and him alike cast Rick a lingering look before the man shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck, turning towards the path to the quarry.

Lori follows a moment later, head swinging both directions before she sets down the path after Shane's retreating back. Carl following in her footsteps, head kept down as Bragi pecks gently at his hair and gives a quiet caw in question.

He'd follow them-- no, he _should_ follow them, but the day is still young and it seems that Lori and Shane have their own business to sort out.

He only hopes that Carl isn't dragged into it, he knows how much his son loves and admires Shane, the other man is practically his uncle and it would do no good to completely separate the two.

Turning away, he stares out at the mountains, admiring the birds that spiral in the air, the sounds of nature and the buzz of conversation and work.

It sounds as if all is right with the world, that if he were to close his eyes he could pretend he'd never saw a walker, that he never laid eyes on a dæmon but there is no pretending, not anymore.

This is real.

An existential dread like the fear of death itself now lingers with the icy chill of the grim reaper in the back of his mind.

There is no going back, and if that's the case, what then?

What happens if he dies… if Wōden dies?

And god that scares him so much more than it would've a day ago.

Are they so cosmically different now that the little dæmon would be forced to walk the world alone, forever searching for the other half of his soul. Or perhaps he'd be the one left without his dæmon, a soulless witness to a life that should have never belonged to him.

He runs a hand down Wōdens back, bringing his fingers back up to massage between the mongoose's ears and scratch the fur at his scruff. His dæmon's tail tip twitches slow and quiet, content.

It's the gentle carding of fingers through someone's hair or the rub of a soothing hand down their back. Contentment and bliss incarnate, a peace so serene it feels unreal when compounded with the events of the last few days.

All is well with the world, he reaffirms, a blatant lie in the face of reality but still it's a breath of fresh air in the tension and the chaos, an escape from the drama that he's found himself wrapped up in.

Of course life chooses that moment to fiercely interrupt, a scream rending the air like the ear shattering blast of a shotgun.

It's a scream he has the misfortune of knowing, heart in his stomach he shoots to his feet, Wōden already yards ahead of him, scampering off towards the source.

Panic sings in every footfall and every paw that slams against the ground as they race to the forest's edge, distressing thoughts flashing between them like camera flashes and lightning strikes.

Hot and bright, it fuels them on, Rick snagging an iron pipe as he practically slides in the gravel, careening past people who stand in fear or those moving too slow.

Shane follows hot on his heels, Cailleach dashing ahead of him so that her massive paws slam into the earth beside Rick.

He can hear Lori, he can hear Carl shout in panic once more and as he breaks through the treeline he sees his son pressed against Sophia's side, the two grabbing each other in fear as Bragi spits and hisses, fur bristling and cat ears pinned.

Sophia's dæmon gives a snort and a stomp of his hoof as he crowds closer to her ankles, careful to huddle behind Bragi's flank.

Jacqui crouches down in front of them, Indra screeching and flapping his wings on her shoulder as the woman seems to shield them with her body, arms wide as she looks behind her at where the trees grow thickest to form the dividing line between campsite and wilderness.

Lori comes yelling onto the scene a moment later, pulling Carl into her arms and she scoops up Bragi as well, the dæmon having taken the shape of a small bobcat. Both her and Carl cling to Lori with frightened voices and seeking limbs, a desperate search for comfort just as Narreh clings to her side, his eyes wide and searching.

Pausing for a moment, Rick makes sure his family is safe, that Carl hasn't been bitten or scratched, that Bragi is unschathed as well but he can't hesitate long when Wōden goes barreling ahead.

Cursing the headstrong mongoose under his breath, Rick moves forward, this time in line with Shane who gives him a nod, falling into a defensive position at Rick's flank, his shotgun raised.

Their approach is a cautious thing but the sound of Wōden's screeching hisses forces them to move faster, a haste in their step at the angry caterwauling.

As Rick steps in to the little clearing, Wōden races back to stand in front of him, all eleven inches of the little dæmon a feral frenzy, foam gathered on the mongoose's mouth and his eyes set ablaze in crimson.

His thoughts are incoherent, bleeding into Rick's like the spread of ink in water, a red that makes him clench the iron pipe and step forward arm cocked back as he bares his teeth in a facsimile of his dæmon.

It's a walker munching on a deer, an arrow with an orange fletch protruding from its stomach that does little to deter the undead's all you can eat buffet.

They gather in a semi-circle around the thing, the wet munch and crunch of its meal make their stomachs turn and their dæmons grow more frantic.

The man with the white dove moves forward, as if to bring his shovel down on the walker but a snarl like a bear rips through the air, stopping the man in his tracks.

Cailleach barrels into the walker, dark fur against rotten flesh and silver eyes glinting, she looks like the black dog of legend come to drag the corpse to hell herself.

Using her bulk to knock it aside, the thing tries to sink its teeth into her flank, panicked Rick steps forward to rip it off Cailleach, he doesn't want to find out what a walker bite does to a dæmon.

But the walker only gets a mouthful of Kevlar, and its frustrated snarl at this trickery is echoed by Cailleach's warning bark, a thing that reverberates with authority and swift retribution.

Of course, the walker has no mind to listen to such threats.

Using her mass to keep it down, she plants one paw on its forehead and the other on its chest, leaving the walker to bite the air and strain its neck as it thrashes.

Rick has half a mind to step forward and stab the thing through the skull himself, Morgan's words echoing in his mind; that it has to be the head.

The space between Cailleach and the walker is small and Rick hesitates, Wōden halting right along with him.

Fortunately, Shane steps up, shotgun exchanged for ax he swings down between his dæmon's paws with a precision that would put seasoned log choppers to shame.

The moment the walker's head rolls away from its body, Cailleach jumps away from it with a snorting huff, ears flattened as her tail stays stiff and high.

Rick lowers his weapon, anger and fear bleeding into relief as everyone seems to lower their guard.

"You know, it's a good thing she was wearing that vest." Dale moves forward, Shane's shotgun held awkwardly in his hands as if he'd much prefer the weight and feel of a different gun.

He's all too eager to pass the weapon back to Shane as he continues. "Didn't think we'd be needing it this soon, though. They never come this far up the mountain."

Passing back the ax, Shane stands, a hand still at Cailleach's scruff.

"Well they're running outta food in the city, that's what." The man in the mechanics jumpsuit speaks up, the dove on his shoulder giving a soft coo in agreement.

Pasithea makes a small chuff as Dale gives his own tsk of disgust.

A rustling in the bushes sets them right back on edge once more. All weapons drawn and aimed, at the ready to reign hell down upon whatever steps out.

Rick fully expects it to be another walker, with the erratic snap and crunch of leaves, how can it be anything else.

To his surprise, a lemur-like mammal bounds out, all huge eyes, soft brown fur and long thick tail as it pads forward.

Rick tilts his head, thinking maybe it'd escaped from the zoo but the hint of intelligence in its eyes and the mirage of gold that swims around it, flickering in and out of existence like a bad signal, seems to suggest otherwise.

"Ah, jesus." Shane sighs, turning his back to the lone dæmon, two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

Looking around, everyone seems to have the same flippant expression, one of barely contained trepidation in Glenn's case as Soo-min hovers anxiously by his ear.

The bush baby creeps forward regardless, eyes flickering over the deer, then the walker and finally settling on the gaping wound in the animal's neck.

Sitting back on their haunches, the bush baby seems rather put off as they look towards the arrows lodged in the flank, a hand coming up to scratch behind their huge bat-like ear.

 _A goddamn bush baby_? Wōden's thought is breathy, disbelief in every iota of it.

More crunches and twigs snapping have Rick's eyes darting back to the treeline but no walker comes stumbling out, instead it's just a man, more precisely a hunter judging by the catch slung over his shoulder.

The hunter jumps back ever so slightly at the sight of so many people but quickly composes himself, a scowl darkening his face when his eyes land on the deer.

"Son of a bitch. That's _my_ deer."

The bush baby seems affronted by the use of that particular possessive pronoun, eyes narrowing and nose scrunching, they turn to face who Rick can safely assume is the one and only Daryl Dixon.

"Look at it, Finch." Daryl addresses his dæmon, gesturing to the deer's corpse with his crossbow as if the bush baby is more of a hunting partner than an actual manifestation of his own soul.

"All gnawed on by this…" Daryl continues, as if unaware that his very presence generates a great deal of uneasiness.

Rick still can't quite process that this man has one of the cutest animals on the goddamn planet as his dæmon. It's positively backasswards, it's as if some deity somewhere made a huge fucking mistake.

This man should have something, vicious, unpredictable, maybe a wolverine or a weasel, anything similar to his brother really. But no, there stands Finch, the cute little bastard doing his best to help Daryl tug the arrows out of the carcass.

Everyone seems to take a generous step back, giving a rather wide berth to the hunter and his dæmom and Rick follows them, unsure of what else to do. However, Wōden has other plans the mongoose stepping forward with curious trepidation in his short movements as he tilts his head to inspect Finch as if he can see something Rick can't. 

Rick wants to rush forward, pull his dæmon back, he's scared of what this Daryl fellow might do with that crossbow notched and still in hand.

"Filthy, disease bearing, motherless, poxy bastard!" Daryl shouts each word punctuated by a kick to the walker, and each thud that connects makes the bushbaby jump without fail as if they don't realize the blows are coming.

"Calm down, that ain't helping." Cailleach barks with the tone of a disgruntled teacher.

"The fuck you know about it mutt?" Daryl turns on the dog, positively bristling with a feral energy, hitching his shoulders as he stomps closer to her and Shane.

Wōden seems to second guess approaching Daryl's dæmon at this point, beating a hasty retreat back to Rick's shoulders before the tension in the air grows too stifling.

 _A real winner, this one._ Wōden snidely thinks as he curls his lip, an echo of it ghosting Rick's own as the two watch Shane's face crumple in anger.

"Why don't you take that stupid vest and go the fuck back to Cagney and Lacey." Daryl finishes, pivoting just in time to avoid Cailleach's snarl and Shane's knuckles bleeding white against the shotgun.

As if he'd hadn't just slung insults, Daryl continues talking, back turned and uncaring while Shane still stews and simmers in his own rage.

Crouching to inspect the bite marks in the deer's neck he mentions that he'd planned to drag it back and cook up some venison for the whole camp.

Rick raises his eyebrows at such a selfless comment but when he looks to Shane the other man is shaking his head, giving a half hearted eye roll as if to say 'get a load of this guy'.

Trying not to frown openly, Rick looks away conflicted about Shane's sentiment. Daryl doesn't seem that bad, the hunter's got a bush baby for Christ's sake.

That's gotta mean something, Rick thinks, twisting the metal pipe in his hands. But he's not so sure, not when Wōden's thoughts burn with vitriol and distaste, and Merle's behavior rings like a klaxon in his head, skewing his perception of the younger Dixon until he's just as leery.

"You think we can cut around this chewed up part here?" The question is genuine, Daryl's eyes jumping from face to face.

Shane sighs, looking down his nose. "I would _not_ risk that."

"That's a damn shame." Daryl mumbles, hiking the rope of squirrels bit higher and resting his crossbow against his opposite shoulder. "Got us some squirrel though, bout a dozen or so. That'll have to do."

The walker's mouth suddenly drops open, teeth snapping even as its head sits very much separated from the shoulders.

"Come on people what the hell-" An arrow flies and hits its mark right in the walker's eye, effectively piercing its brain and silencing the thing for good. Daryl tugs the bolt out not a moment later, his words exasperated. "It's gotta be the brain."

"Don't y'all know nothin'?" Daryl's words turn harsh, that passive aggressive tone that grinds anyone's gears spilling out as he stomps away with a huff, Finch trailing a few yards behind him.

There it is, Rick thinks as he follows, there's the proof that this was never gonna be smooth sailing.

 

Daryl calls for Merle, and still they all trail behind the hunter like lost little ducklings, no one more willing to break the news than the other.

Instead all they can muster are exchanged glances and mouthed words, waiting for the right moment they must be thinking but at this rate it'll be nightfall before anyone says a damn thing.

Just perfect, Rick thinks, they've walked so far they're back in front of the RV. They're at the heart of the camp and all its citizens have gathered around at the commotion, ready to watch everything unfold like it's prime time television.

Shane stops Daryl in his needless shouting, asking him to hold up as Cailleach hangs back.

Finch looks up from where they've begun piling up tender and branches, getting the firepit ready to cook. Despite the obvious loom of dreadful news and danger, the bush baby makes no attempt to move closer to Daryl, instead they watch with an owlish blink.

"There was a problem in Atlanta."

Daryl looks around for a moment. "They dead?"

Shane's voice is uncharacteristically quiet, "We're not sure."

"He either is or he ain't!" Daryl shouts, frustration obvious in the muscles that jump in his temple and his neck. Circling closer, Rick can practically sense the fist Daryl is itching to throw at Shane's face.

"No easy way to say this, so I'll just say it." The words kind of just fall out of Rick's mouth, and he's already moving forward before Wōden has time to bite his ear and tell him this is a bad idea. The mongoose is dragged along for the ride, a growl gathering in his throat that rumbles against Rick's neck.

"Who the fuck're you?" Daryl bites back, eyes narrowed and temple jumping.

"Rick Grimes."

"Alright _Rick Grimes_ , you got somethin' you wanna tell me?"

"Your brother was a danger to us all, so I handcuffed him on a roof, hooked him to a piece of metal." The words come a little too fast, probably because his blood's still roiling with adrenaline. "He's still there."

A twig snaps behind Rick and he turns to see Finch holding the two broken ends, eyes wide as their ears fall back and they let their hands fall limp against their knees. Still they move no closer.

"Hold on." Daryl wipes an arm across his face, wiping sweat from his brow or perhaps the beginning of frustrated tears Rick can't be sure but the distress is palpable. "Let me process this."

"You're sayin' you handcuffed my brother to a roof and you _left_ 'im there?!"

Rick's not sure what he expected Daryl's response to be but hearing the other man's voice raised and cracking, was not one of them.

"Yeah." It's the best Rick can muster, looking down and away. God, he was so stupid for thinking this would be just some hurled curses, maybe a punch to the face, and a lot of anger and violence.

Letting his guard down, he realizes that a punch isn't coming his way. Hell he half expects the hunter to storm away any second, probably to out right march into Atlanta on his own.

He's forced to retract that sentiment when a bunch of squirrel carcasses come hurling at him.

Ducking and wheeling backwards, he throws Wōden off balance and the mongoose ends up clinging to his shirt, front paws on his shoulders and back paws scrambling for a grip at his spine.

 

Before Rick can even recover, Shane is already barreling into the hunter and throwing him to the ground.

Distress switches to fury in a snap, Daryl unsheathing the knife at his waist as he gets to his feet.

Rick dodges the first swing but the frenzied hunter nearly clips him on the second one. Taking the opening left by the overzealous effort to gut him, Rick grabs the man's wrist, twisting it and disarming him in the same instant.

Still, Daryl struggles something fierce aiming a knee at his crotch and a kick at his shin. Both miss wildly, the knee thankfully slamming into his hip and it does little more than make Rick wince.

Shane quickly snaps Daryl into a choke hold, a rather vicious one at that, causing the hunter to gasp and gurgle for air, left to flail without dignity in the dirt and gravel.

After a few seconds of futile struggles, Daryl goes limp allowing Shane to release his hold and the hunter falls forward, catching himself on shaking arms.

Rick let's his anger get the best of him, Wōden not helping in the slightest as the mongoose snarls and snaps his teeth next to his ear, rage only being magnified between the two as he crouches down in front of the cowed hunter.

"What I did was not on a whim." Rick snarls, pressing in closer to Daryl as he pushes a hand into the hunter's shoulder for emphasis. He doesn't have time to dwell on the heavy flinch that elicits, instead all Rick can comprehend is the stubborn, hard set to Daryl's eyes.

"Your brother does not work and play well with others."

"He was out of fuckin' control." Wōden finishes with a growl, digging his nails into Rick's collarbone. Anger and its white hot flames still lick at Rick's mind, Wōden still very much not okay with the hunter nearly landing a knife in his gut.

T-Dog butts in, dropping the stack of firewood in his arms. "It's not Rick's fault, alright. I dropped the key."

"You couldn't pick it up?" Daryl fires back as he stands, hand at his throat he steps away like a cornered cat refusing to turn his back to Rick.

"We dropped it in a drain." Tsīrona's soft voice answers and T-Dog continues, explaining that he chained the door, that there's a chance Merle's still alive.

"To hell with all y'all! Just tell me where he is so's I can go get 'im." Daryl demands, already heading down the path to the road and more importantly the cars, Finch tagging along with a great reluctance in their steps.

"Wait…" Rick looks around, his eyes meeting Lori's as he brings a hand up to rest gently against his dæmom's side. "We'll go back with you."

He's left standing there, watching as Lori turns away with a stormy expression and flees into the interior of the RV, his son left outside under the awning with Bragi in his lap shifting from bobcat to mouse in the blink of an eye.

Carl's eyes are dark and accusatory, a cold glare that leaves Rick chilled to the bone and with a hurt that makes his chest ache as he turns away just the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rick: Wōden (Indian grey mongoose)
> 
> Carl: Bragi (harvest mouse, cotton tail rabbit, crow, bobcat, unsettled)
> 
> Lori: Narreh (darwinius masillae)
> 
> Shane: Cailleach (american alsatian dog)
> 
> Daryl: Finch (thick tailed bush baby)
> 
> Dale: Pasithea (bearded dragon)
> 
> T-Dog: Tsīrona (coatimundi)
> 
> Andrea: Serapion (common house cat, tabby)
> 
> Amy: (unmentioned) (leaf insect, largest species)
> 
> Glenn: Soo-min (patagonian bumblebee)
> 
> Ed: common cuckoo
> 
> Carol: Pavonius (red knobbed hornbill)
> 
> Sophia: (unmentioned) (pudu)
> 
> Jim: (unmentioned) (white fan tail dove)
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter 6 Guide (this time with an amazing photo manip of Daryl and Finch courtesy of HelixaHallwood): 
> 
> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1delmh9v3rzuQAJFhsvwSYJRs0jtPa_X37at0W5xL7QM/edit?usp=drivesdk


	7. Tracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Weep not for roads untraveled,  
> Weep not for paths left lone,  
> 'Cause beyond every bend is a long blinding end,  
> It's the worst kind of pain I've known.  
> Give up your heart left broken,  
> And let that mistake pass on,  
> 'Cause the love that you lost wasn't worth what it cost,  
> And in time you'll be glad it's gone."
> 
> -Roads Untravelled, Linkin Park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short as hell chapter, but the next one should be up sooner then

Sitting in the passenger seat, with an elbow propped against the window and a hand pressed to his forehead, Rick watches the scenery fly by.

Green blurs with grey and neutral brown as buildings begin to pop up with greater frequency. They pass in a dizzying flash, unfocused and almost unreal when Rick forgets to blink, his vision blurring until soon enough the entire world starts to lose all coherency. 

Wōden snaps him out of it, the mongoose crawling up Rick's shirt to perch on his shoulder. Hunched over like a furry gargoyle, he peers over the seat, and Rick can't stop his small sigh of annoyance, he's done it three times already since they've started driving. 

A mixture of intrigue and fascination similar to the uneasy balance of a tightrope over a windy canyon swirls wildly in Wōden's thoughts.

And Rick's own worries add to the mix, echoing back to him in weak stutters as he turns his head, cheek brushing Wōden's flank and nose bumping into the mongoose's side. He doesn't see much of anything except brown fur and the tan roof of the van's cargo space. 

With a silent huff, he turns to look ahead, not understanding why his dæmon's so enamored by the feral redneck. The mongoose had been spitting and hissing not an hour ago, threatening to rip Daryl's innards out for even trying to lay a finger on Rick. 

Rick himself doesn't hold a very high opinion of the hunter, he'd seemed alright at first but upon actually experiencing Daryl's less than friendly disposition first hand, that charm wore right off, about as quick as ice left out in the Georgia sun. All that's left is a puddle of lukewarm trust and hazy obligation. 

It's all just peachy-keen, he despairs. 

_What's wrong?_ Wōden looks over his shoulder, torso twisting and nose twitching as he studies Rick's face with little flickers of his orange eyes, searching for some physical ailment or clue.

Over the last few hours it seemed the emotions shared between dæmon and man had only become stronger, understanding his physical soul came easier, like a wound unknowingly left to fester had suddenly been sutured shut, torn edges brought together and the whole thing flushed out so the skin may one day repair itself. 

There was a clarity to it all that felt like warm sand being poured into his chest, until it completely surrounded his heart and encased his lungs, until it threatened to spill out of his mouth with it's overwhelming heat. It burned bright and new, speaking with Wōden felt less like some janky tin can telephone game and more like a whisper spoken directly into each other's ears. 

It was beautiful, something he was already addicted to and he knows now that he can never leave it behind. Not even if he had a chance to go back, he craved that connection like a man in a desert craves the promise of oasis.

 _Nothing, just thinking._ Rick assures, tilting his head so that his ear and his jaw brush lightly against Wōden's coarse fur, purposeful and gentle.

 _You're doing the right thing._ Wōden hums, a vigorous determination in there, not unlike someone attempting to delude themselves. _Carl and Bragi will come around._

 _It's not them I'm worried about._ Rick glowers, letting his arm fall heavily into his lap. 

Wōden gives a sympathetic grunt but adds no comment, opting to turn his attention back to Daryl, no doubt staring at that bush baby again. 

_Didn't anyone ever teach you starin' is rude?_

All Rick receives in response is a furry thwack to the face. He quickly swipes Wōden's tail away from his nose with an undignified snort, choosing to ignore the serious side long glance that elicits from Glenn. 

Rubbing a frustrated hand down his face, he lets himself slump further down in the seat, and as he sags he can feel Wōden's back paws strain and shake against his shoulder, the dæmon being forced to stretch further, going from mongoose to proverbial slinky. 

He doesn't reprimand him, even if the sensation starts to tickle his skin ever so slightly, he has more pressing matters on his mind. 

His thumb traces the cold metal of the pistol at his hip, four bullets in the chamber, four men and four dæmons but enough to end all of them just the same. 

Shane's parting words swim in his head, filling his ears like the creak and groan of the van as they drive along the railroad tracks.

He remembers that look of downright fear in Shane's eyes, the disbelief inching into his voice and his eyes with every step, every word, every refusal to stay and every demand to go. He has to do this, why couldn't Shane just see that? 

_And Lori…_ Rick grimaces as he remembers just how put off she seemed, but just like everything else in their relationship she brushed it off, ignoring it because she stopped trying to get him to listen a long time ago, even in _this_ world. She had fiddled with the wedding ring still nestled safely under her shirt, it's imprint just a raised little circle beneath white cloth. 

He still loves her, but he hammered the final nail into the coffin of their dying marriage when he refused that ring. He doesn't think he could ever stop truly caring for her, but it's fundamentally different now and for the life of him he can't muster up the words to tell her how. Even now, he can still feel where Narreh's little hands had grabbed for his collar, trying to hold him in place even as Lori made no outward indication she wanted Rick to stay. Her soul betrayed her in that and in the end, Lori had to reach up and pry Narreh's blunt nails from the fabric, a fine mist of gathering tears in her eyes and still she did not let her face crumple. 

It's a reminder that this isn't his, and as blasphemous as it is to think, does he even want it anymore? 

His frown deepens, he'd made a promise he intends to keep, to get back to them, to come back to Carl but does he really have the power to uphold that, he's but a stranger in a strange new land at the mercy of some god he can't bring himself to believe in.

He reasons that he's lived through this much, why is this any different? 

Glenn stops the van with a rather screeching halt of the brakes, his body carried forward by the momentum and his head swiveling to glare at the kid but Glenn only stares ahead, eyes dark and expression neutral as Soo-min takes up a buzzing, nervous dance on his baseball cap.

"We walk from here." 

And with that they're all exiting the van, shaking out cramped limbs and dæmons giving a few stretches as they walk down the tracks and head into the city. 

The trek itself is eventless and mostly quiet aside from Daryl giving a dark matter that they best find his brother or else, and his dæmon casts back a wide eyes and weary look at Rick, who can only return a blink of confusion before the strange occurrence ends as if it never happened. 

Ducking through the opening of a busted fence Rick hears Wōden speak up, voicing his exact thought before he can even open his mouth to say it himself. 

"Merle or the guns first?" 

Daryl whirls on the little mammal, venom spitting with every syllable of his words,  
"We ain't even having this conversation."

"We are." Rick defends his dæmon with a steely tone and a hand twitching for the gun at his hip. And by god, it seemed there wasn't anyone on this planet who rubbed Rick's fur the wrong way quite like Daryl Dixon.

A part of him wanted to intrinsically trust the hunter, but another part wanted to say fuck it and lay into the guy, ask him what the hell his deal is, why he's gotta be so goddamn unpleasant to be around. No one is naturally that much of an asshole, not even Merle.

That's something you have to work at, craft and hone and Merle happened to be a superb talent at it, delusional and a white supremacist to boot. 

Frustratingly, Rick can see Daryl's potential to care, to be kind and give a shit, it's right there at the surface. And maybe that's what is so maddening, he clearly gives enough of a damn about his brother, he cares enough to go out hunting for the whole camp, risking life and limb for a dozen squirrels, just so everyone doesn't have to go to bed on stomachs of old creamed corn. 

Rick wants to shake the idiot and ask him why, pry that capacity to be a decent fucking human right out of the deepest darkest parts of Daryl's psyche. 

It's right there, in that damn bush baby that trails behind him like a kicked puppy, he only need to turn around and acknowledge them. 

Still, there's so much he doesn't understand about dæmons and social norms, he feels like a proverbial newborn when it comes to the whole thing, always doing something that rubs everyone's fur the wrong way. It's a wonder they let him stay and even listen to him, but he supposed they don't have many options and his family is back at the camp, so they're stuck with him whether they like it or not. 

Yet even he can see something is fundamentally and desperately wrong between Finch and Daryl. 

And everyone's just okay with it? Is it something people don't talk about, something you don't point out like a missing limb or a disfiguring scar? 

His eyes slide to Wōden and he considers for half a second asking about it, but he'd already put his foot in his mouth where the mongoose was concerned one too many times. 

He wasn't too keen to repeat any of that again, and the scrutiny was bad enough as it was, eyes tracking his every movement as if he's about to snap at any second, a reserved sadness in some people's eyes, and a quiet horror in others. 

And if we're considered _severed_ , Rick thinks darkly as he eyes the bush baby and their counterpart walking just ahead of the group, what the hell does that make them?

His eyes turn to Wōden then, the dæmon trotting by his side rather than sitting on his shoulder, if he hears the thought, he makes no outward indication of it. Giving a defeated sigh under his breath, he keeps his eyes forward and his feet moving, no time now to dwell on such matters. 

All things considered, with how chaotic it's been, it goes smoothly, that herd of walkers has seemed to move on to better pastures, it's a bit troubling but not unwelcome. There's no time to sit and ponder where on Earth the dead bastards would and could have gone, for now, there's a goal in mind and they're halfway to completing it, heading in to the department store with weapons drawn and dæmons alert.


End file.
